


Listen To The Beat Of Your Heart, Dean

by castielslovesong



Series: Carve Me A New Heart [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, BAMF Sam Winchester, Cute Sammy, Doctor Castiel, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, John isn't an asshole, M/M, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Nerd Dean, Popular Castiel, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam finally gets a dog, Sick Dean Winchester, You feel me, Young Winchesters, but he's also not around, eventually, then ratings will change, there will be smut, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 79,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielslovesong/pseuds/castielslovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>17 year old Dean Winchester lives at home with his little brother Sam. Only the Winchester's (and the teachers at school) know about Dean's heart problem - that's the way Dean likes to keep it. </p><p>He doesn't want pity and he doesn't want to think about how his life is literally on a timer that's running out, the meds can't fix him after all.</p><p>Then the kid with the trenchcoat moves in across the road and becomes way more part of his life than he was ever meant to be. One act of kindness can repay the next and at the end of it all, will Dean find that keeping secrets hurts more than it helps?</p><p>I guess Cas will have to show him that there's more than what Dean ever expected to find.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>[Currently under editing for mistakes]</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dammit Bones!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello! Another au, I know, someone hold me. 
> 
> I'm actually writing this for a friend on tumblr, Charlotte you're awesome.
> 
> Any comments you have would be super appreciated.
> 
> Thanks, love c:

They meet by pure coincidence.

“SAMMY!” He growls down the phone pressed into his ear, panting with each step as he chases the fiend.

“Where the fuck is the off or stop button on your damn dog?! Bones no don’t-“

Too late. He curses, spinning on the spot before quickly picking up the newly smashed flower pot and gingerly placing it back on the wall. Sprinting off again, he chases the dog with new vigour; he doesn’t know what he’s chasing but it better be a golden bone or he’s going to string it up. Sammy’s pet or not.

“He doesn’t usually run off. I don’t know Dean, have you tried calling him back?”

Nearly choking on his surprised and insulted laugh, he mutters mockingly down the phone, “Yeah, I tried shouting refrigerator, but he didn’t seem to listen.”

Sam huffs. “Whatever jerk, ring me when you catch him.” He pauses. “And you better catch him.”

Sam hangs up before he can give an indignant squawk about how he knows that the dog has a lot of sentimental value to him. Instead he angrily slams the phone into his pocket, turning the corner to chase the golden wisps of fur.

“Fuck Bones, no!”

He cries out, watching helplessly from a few metres behind as the dog bounds up the road he lives at, crashing full force into some kid holding a box on the pavement. There’s a moving van there too and Dean looks to the heavens, telling his heart where to shove it and running faster to haul him off the poor guy.

To his surprise, the boy turns, having heard Dean cursing from a block away most probably, in time to catch Bones in his arms with little effort. Lavishing him with kisses, Bones wiggles and wags his tail, looking sheepishly to Dean when he finally manages to catch up, gulping in large amounts of air.

“Sorry... About the dog.” He wheezes, standing up to his full height.

The boy peeks out from behind the fur, placing the dog carefully down while Dean puts his leash back on. He exhales a breath of relief. Sam would flip his shit if anything happened to his dog.

“Thanks.”

When he looks at the boy, he feels the beat of his heart stop. He’s smiling, shy almost, the sun highlighting his dark brown hair, with blue eyes sparkling in the afternoon light. Breath taking is both ironic and a dumb pun that Dean scolds his brain for making.

“It’s no trouble,” He says, rubbing Bones’ head. “I like dogs, although Lucky would disagree with my preference.”

Dean follows his blue gaze to a black cat cleaning itself on the windowsill across from them. The house is detached, modest and small, however larger than his own. There’s no cliché picket fence; just an unkempt lawn and gravel path. Boxes are pilled along the grass and Dean realises that none of the neighbours here came out to help him. He frowns at the thought.

“Castiel.”

He’s staring at him again.

“What?” He snaps himself out of it. _Casti-what_?

“My apologies, I’m new to... This.” He gestures between them, fondly patting Bones on the head once more. “My name is Castiel.”

“Oh right,” Dean collects his scattered brain and forces it to cooperate, shoving his free hand out, “I’m Dean and this is my little brother’s dog Bones.”

Raising his eyebrows, Castiel bends down to pick up the box he had been dealing with. “Your brother’s?”

Dean sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, little bitch is at the library studying.”

He mentally smacks himself over the back of the head. Way to go bore this guy with your vulgar language and life story dumbass. He suddenly feels embarrassed, shifting on his feet. Glancing to the van, he sees that it is only half emptied and even then, most of Cas’ belongings are making a home on the lawn.

“You’re doing a fine job,” Cas half smiles again, his eyes teasing.

He chuckles awkwardly in agreement. Cas readjusts the box in his arms. Dean licks his lips, silently asking himself where the idea even came from.

“I can take Bones home and give you a hand, if you want.” He rubs his hand over the back of his neck, studiously avoiding the pinpoint gaze Cas was holding him in.

Those eyes bore at him and it feels like they can see through his shirt and into his soul, or at least, see far enough past his bullshit. He risks a glimpse, only to see that Cas has tilted his head slightly, a bird confused, squinting at him with the same intensity of a microscope lens. It was stupid to ask and Dean has an apology on the tip of his tongue when Cas answers.

“I’d appreciate that, if it does not inconvenience you. Where do you live?”

Dean raises his head, half in astonishment at the acceptance of his offer and the other half at how blunt Cas is. Most people would be creeped out or weirdly offended by his constant staring and personal question – then again, Dean isn’t most people.

He smiles; is caught out by it actually.

Indicating round the van, he points to the train wreck that is his house. It’s smaller than Cas’, with no lawn (other than the parking space for Baby) and a less appealing appearance. He grimaces, seeing as he doesn’t pay any attention to it unless he has someone coming over, which he never does, or if Sammy brings friends round, which he’s learnt not to.

“That one.” He states dumbly, for something to say more than anything. Not that the silence had been uncomfortable, far from it, but it felt as though the verbal communication was important to show that he does have people skills besides ‘sorry my brother’s wild dog nearly took you out’.

Cas remains silent, nodding in acknowledgement.

“I’ll be right back.”

Crossing the road, he leads Bones to the front door, merely opening it to let him in and remove the leash.

“You and me will be having a chat when I get back.”

He points at his open mouth grin (this dog _knows_ what it did the bastard), quickly ruffling his hair in reminiscent affection. When Dad get’s back he knows it’s going to be hell for Bones, even though their life is less than conventional at the best of times. Getting a dog had of course been Sammy's idea, but it took Dean a long time grovelling to get Dad to agree. Something with 4 feet is much harder to up and shift out of town at a moments notice, take on long drives and feed on fast food, after all. He closes the door, locking it with a flick of his wrist, and returns to Cas’ side. He’s moved a few more boxes onto the lawn, a dark patch of sweat clinging to his back as he bends. Dean’s not staring at his not-neighbours back, no way. He’s just... Observing.

“Hello Dean.” Cas rumbles, his voice, Dean realises, could match Batman.

“Hey Cas.” Dean takes in the boxes left to unload and those already out, calculating where he’d be most helpful. “Why don’t you go and get those off the lawn and inside and I can get the rest of these out?”

That’s good Dean, get your hands working, it’s what you’re made for: fixing things.

Agreeing seriously, Cas walks up his gravel path, lifting two boxes at once, swinging the door open and disappearing inside.

Dean blows his breath out. He doesn’t know why he’s even getting riled up about this – for all he knows the guy doesn’t even swing that way. Striding to the back of the van, he pulls at its contents and carries them to the lawn. It will be easier to do this in stages, he decides. At least putting his hands to use helps him to clear his mind from the thoughts of the hot boy across the road from him now. Fuck.

After about 10 minutes, the van is empty and so is half the garden. They stop for a break, sitting on Cas’ front porch step, sipping from the recently unpacked glasses of water. He’d kill for a beer, but it’s not like he’s allowed to have them really anyway.

“What’s your brother’s name?” Cas asks, breaking the peace they had adjusted into. It was odd, for Dean, to click so easily with someone.

“Sam, but I call him Sammy. Old habits.” He shrugs, “What about you Cas, any siblings?”

Cas nods solemnly, “Five.”

From the tone of his voice, five siblings isn’t all rainbows and butterflies.

“Damn, what are you the youngest?”

He shakes his head, “No, I have a younger brother.”

Cas smiles now, a nostalgic look that Dean sees past to the hurt and melancholy hidden underneath. He’s a pro at repressing emotions, so even Cas’ completely blank face is easily decipherable. There’s definitely a story there.

“What are their names? Are they all as weird as Castiel?” He asks, raising the glass to his lips.

Cas’ nose twitches in a way Dean refuses to label as adorable.

“We’re named after angels, so there’s Michael, Gabriel, Balthazar, Anael, though she prefers to be called Anna, myself and-“

“Don’t tell me, Jesus?” Snorting at his own joke, he puts the glass down on the step below, suddenly aware of their proximity. He slides to away from Cas’ shoulder a little.

“No, he’s my half brother.” Cas deadpans.

Dean turns to him slowly, regarding every inch of Cas’ face that is turned to the side, looking out into the street. A good 5 seconds pass, then Cas faces him and Dean loses it.

“You’re kidding me!?” He gasps between laughter, pressure on his chest increasing minutely. He rubs his hand over his heart, out of habit. If Cas notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“I am ‘kidding’ you yes.” Beaming fully Cas looks at him like he’s an unsolvable puzzle. “His name is Samandriel.”

Dean must have pulled a face because Cas full on laughs now; a beautiful growling sound that tears at Dean's already weak heart strings. 

"We call him Sam, for short." 

“So where are they?”

The look of intense repression of feelings returns to Cas’ face.

“My parents and Sam will be here later. The rest have moved out.”

“Oh right.” They left him to do the heavy lifting; literally, he already doesn’t like the sound of Cas’ parents. “What school will you be going to?”

Cas squints, tipping his head to the side again. “I was only aware of one in the area, Kansas High?”

Fighting a blush, Dean coughs. “Right yeah, awesome. I go there too.”

He smiles, “We may be classmates.”

_Only because my bitch of a brother forced me to get my GED, not that Dad cares or that it will matter eventually._

“Yup.” He says instead, getting ready to drown out those thoughts with some classic rock and his good friends Jack and Jose. (Hopefully Sammy won’t catch him this time).

The exchange of small pieces of information – including each other’s numbers, for reference of course – carries on as they get the rest of Cas’ belongings inside. By which time, Dean belatedly realises that he has work in an hour and he needs to check on Bones.

Cas offers a short wave, closing the door slowly on Dean’s retreating figure.


	2. I'm Good At Keeping Secrets

They see each other at school – when Dean decides to turn up to school. He doesn’t know if Cas is being shy and awkward or if he genuinely doesn’t want to carry on with a friendship, but after passing each other twice in the corridor with no reaction, Dean decides he’s managed to bum another friend. It kind of sucks, he's a good looking guy just not overly popular, and someone like Cas, who lives real close and is more genuine than half the people in the school, would have made a welcome addition to his circle. Then again, the less people he gets involved with, perhaps the better. 

It’s the final period of the day and he has physics, incidentally, with Cas. Walking in silently, he makes his way to the back of the room. He doesn’t expect anyone to sit next to him, Cas sat at the front before, so he’s surprised to find Cas already with his books out on the desk next to the one he’d deemed his. This lesson is interesting, and if he was honest with himself a career in mechanical engineering is a possibility, now that he’s dream to be a fire fighter has been well and truly put out.

Cas is scribbling down notes still when Dean lowers himself into the chair. Instantly upon hearing the noise, Cas’ head snaps up. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Hello Dean.”

Cas must have gone through puberty twice, because Christ, no one’s voice is naturally that deep. He stares for a minute, captured by Cas’ eyes. Coughing, he glances away to Hendrickson who has started the class writing down some equations. He realises that he hasn't said hello, and that Cas isn't even paying the slightest bit of attention to their teacher. 

“Heyya Cas.”

Content now to go back to his work, Cas starts to copy down what Vik is writing. Dean can’t though, his chest feels tight and constricting, like his ribcage is imploding in on itself. He rubs his hand there, feeling the fast and erratic clench of his heart when his fingers brush over the raised scar. At the same time as trying to control his breathing, he leans down to his bag at the side of his desk, pulling out the pot of pills as he brings himself back up. He pops the cap, looking down the bottle to see that he’s almost out of them. Huffing in frustration (hospitals are not his favourite place in the world) he downs two, dry, placing the pot back into his bag.

It leaves a bitter and dusty taste in his mouth.

Cas is staring at him quizzically, like he’s the quantum equation and Dean shoots him an equally questioning glance. His eyes flick to Dean’s bag, and then back up.

He shrugs it off easily. “Headache.”

Slowly, Cas nods, though Dean can see he's only skeptically accepting the lie. He’s still wearing the trenchcoat Dean had seen him in the other day, only this time he has a plain black tee and open waist coat on. It’s an odd get up for school, but then Dean comes in with the wide variation of a band tee, plaid and jeans. Not exactly Gok Wan.

His focus on the lesson lingers between I-need-to-be-paying-attention and hazily-writing-stuff-down and I-don’t-want-to-have-to-go-to-the-hospital-after-this. They only give him enough pills for two weeks; apparently because the meds are so strong, they can’t afford the risk of someone trying to overdose. It’s not a thought that’s ever crossed his mind because he would never willingly leave Sammy or his Dad. 

Trapped in the prison walls of his mind, he zones out on the board in front of him, consumed by the rattle of his chest and tapping of his pencil on the desk. There are times, such as now, where the bleakness of his outlook catches him off guard. If he wasn't the sack of despair that he is, he'd be doing what half the kids in the class with him are doing: writing the hell out of those notes and listening to all the anecdotes the teacher has to offer. He can't, the increasing thump of his heart is too much and he becomes stuck in the broken and skippy parts of its rhythm, trying to analyse the disease away. He blinks himself out of his stupor when Cas nudges him. The bell has gone and the class is empty. Smiling at Cas in thanks, he slides his book and pencil into his bag, heaving it over his shoulder and following Cas out of the room.

They walk in companionable silence, although Dean can feel Cas’ unasked question rolling off the guy in uneasy waves.

He decides that distraction is better than trying to follow through with the lie.

“What are you up to later, Cas?” He pushes the door to the parking lot open.

Noticeably surprised by the question, Cas doesn’t answer immediately. Dean waits, watching the flap of his trenchcoat as he walks and the way the wind adds to the mess that sits on Cas’ head.

“I help out at my brother’s work most days.” He says finally, stopping as Dean does when they come to the edge of the school grounds.

Dean would like to say that he has the Impala parked in the parking lot they just crossed through, that he could hold onto her with all his might and never let go. Sometimes he wishes they were back on the road again, just him Sammy and Dad. Their life was simple once – move, search, leave. He didn’t have to worry about his ticker or about school. He sighs, or before the road back to before...

“Dean?”

That’s Sammy. Time to slip the mask of 'I'm fine' back on. 

“Heyya Sammy,” He completely morphs his face into his signature I’m fine, and looks between Cas and his little brother. “Sammy, this is my buddy Cas. He’s the one who-“

“Moved in across from us, yeah Dean, I gathered after you wouldn’t shut up about him last night.” Sam rolls his eyes, shifting the too large backpack on his shoulders. Just because they live in a fixed location doesn’t mean the money has started rolling in. Dean does what he can, so does Dad, but ultimately they can’t afford to buy new school stuff every year. They barely make ends meet between them as it is.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t fully register what his brother says for a good two seconds.

“Shaddap.” Punching him on the arm, Dean starts to walk in the direction of home. He knows full well that Sam (maybe even Cas) will soon follow.

He hears the muttered ‘jerk’ and spins to shoot Sam a dirty glare without heat. Cas is a few steps behind, uncertain of whether he is allowed to come with them. Dean grins at him and shrugs in a way that someone with siblings instantly understands, and Cas gives him another smile. The pace change of his heart at the sight of his smile doesn’t help with the ache in his chest.

School isn’t far from their houses in retrospect, the three of them finding a pace easily. Sam talks animatedly of his day at school, Dean mostly listens, only chiming in to tease him about the girl he likes, Jessica. Cas talks to Sam about his history and science project and before Dean knows it, the nerds have bored him the whole way home.

“I guess I’ll cya later Cas.” Dean says, an apology hidden in his eyes. He knows that Sammy can be a bit... Enthusiastic. And, well, it’s not every day the poor kid finds someone on his intellectual level that he can talk about the things that really interest him about.

“Bye Cas!” Sam shouts, bounding up to the door with the key that he’d slipped from Dean’s pocket. He rolls his eyes when he hears Sam doing that weird baby talk to Bones.

“Your brother is very interesting,” Cas states, lingering on Dean’s side of the road. He keeps shooting side glances to his own home and Dean gets the feeling he doesn’t want to go home just yet.

He licks his lips, nervous as to whether he’s crossing a line after only a week or so of knowing each other.

“I’ve got to go to work...” Sam and Cas seemed to click pretty easily, “But Sammy could probably use some help with his homework, if you don’t want to go home yet.”

For a moment Cas’ face brightens, a twinkle setting in his blue eyes. He must have imagined it though; it fades as soon as it came.

“Thank you for the offer, but I have to assist my brother, at work, tonight.” Cas turns, foregoing a goodbye with an abruptness that makes Dean inwardly face palm. A coil of self doubt and sadness winds in his gut. He doesn’t turn away. Cas strides past the white picket fences, coat swaying with his movements. Reaching his doorway, he looks at Dean again.

Even from a distance, their eyes lock.

Cas waves, crossing the threshold of his front door backwards, (the dork). Dean finds himself standing in an empty street with his arm raised.

He hops the steps to his own front door, leaning in to shout out to wherever Sam is in the house.

“Going to work, be back soon Sammy.”

He waits.

“Don’t forget to get your medication Dean.” Sam calls back.

The kid is getting too old for his own good.

“Yeah, don’t burn the house down if you try to cook again.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Closing the door, he locks it with the key left in the hole. It had taken a while for John to allow Sam to be left on his own. The kid is 14 now; as he so elegantly put it during one of their many shouting fests ‘I can fight as good as Dean and someone has to go to work!’. It was a low blow on Dad, even if the kid had a point. The gravel crunches beneath his boots, wind picking up while he waits at the bus stop. Never for long periods of time will he leave Sam, but he does have to work to keep food in the fridge.

Dean winces, mentally calculating how long Dad’s been gone and when the last wad of notes ran out.

It’s been a month.

The $500 wouldn’t have even paid rent.

John calls every now and then to check in – the deal of a permanent home had cost the fatherly role John played. After all, he is still looking for the arsonist that killed Mary.

Dean shivers at the thought.

The bus ride is uneventful; his head bangs against the cool glass of the window when it goes over a particularly uneven part of the road. People mill about, getting on, getting off. He wishes he had stolen their shared iPod before he’d left. Being inside a moving vehicle calms him tremendously, second only to the lull of music.

There’s a short walk along a narrow grassy path from the bus stop he gets off at to the hospital.  He breathes in the cooler air, popping the collar of his Dad’s leather jacket up to shield him from the brisk wind. He glances to the sky. The weather has been unpredictable of late, ranging from blistering sunshine to crackling lightning storms.

The hospital looms up ahead of him. It’s a grotesque white building, the sterile kind that is too bright to look at for long. Shaped in basic oblongs, the main entrance sticks out from the other wings, the architecture itself would be unimpressive were it not for the carved angels that were donated here forever ago. 4 of them line the roof top – the 4 archangels. It’s a symbol of good faith from a millionaire ex patient. Rich people always do know how to put their money to useful purposes.

Crossing the road out front, he makes his way to the cardiology department. He finds his pace slowing, dread flowing through him. The woman at the desk is pretty hot though, his brain reasons, and he knows that he’ll worry Sammy if he doesn’t get the pills. The automatic doors welcome him in, depressingly, his feet carrying him to the front desk. The stench of hand sanitizer and disinfectant assault him immediately. Scrunching his nose up, he goes to the desk. 

Lisa, the nurse he’s got to know there, is busy on the phone. She holds up one finger at him, the indication to wait, so he rocks back on his heels idly. No, he really doesn’t like hospitals.

“Heyya Lisa.” He says, once she puts the phone down.

“Hey, Dean.” She gives him an easy smile, though customary, and begins to flick through the pages on her clip board. “How’s the heart?”

He puts up his front, face hardening. “Same old, same old. Just here for my pills.”

A doctor breezes past him, drawing Lisa’s attention.

“Can you fax the blood work over to toxicology please Lis?” The man asks, though his tone would suggest he doesn’t mean anything other than telling her. It’s like he’s making a deliberate effort to be pleasant and it comes off stiff and unnatural.

The doctor doesn’t look old, perhaps in his 30’s. His eyes are a steel grey, his hair dark brown. He moves with purpose, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk with the hand not holding the papers.

“Sure thing, Doctor Novak.”

He nods and leaves.

Dean’s sure that name’s familiar, a niggling idea at the back of his mind surfacing.

“Here you go sweetie, if you could just sign here.” Lisa draws him back.

“Erh, sure.” _Smooth Winchester_. Scrawling his name messily on the dotted line, he pockets the pills and near runs from the building.

Fresh air crashes through his senses, easing his chest with the addition of two pills.


	3. Who Keeps You Calm?

Castiel fits into the school immediately. The dude is completely oblivious, but the girls find his awkwardness cute and the guys think he’s a secret badass (which may or may not have to do with the time he got ambushed in the locker room and kicked 3 guy's asses). So yeah, compared to Dean, Cas is on a whole other social spectrum.

Which is why Dean’s heart does the annoying fluttery thing when Cas turns down the pretty girls and popular boys to sit with Dean and Charlie in the library. Cas likes his books, and he apparently likes Dean enough to jeopardise his run for Mr Popular, so school passes with easy smiles and nerd talk. Most of that is Charlie’s doing, however.

The next few weeks pass in a flurry of school and going around each other’s to study and hang out. Cas still goes to work with his brother in the evenings (Dean is yet to work out where) but that’s ok because Dean has to work as well. What makes it even better, as Cas quickly nudges his way into Dean’s life and sets up camp there, is that their little brother’s get on too.

They call them Sam squared.

The Sam’s call them nerds.

Generally, them hanging out means a movie night; both Cas and Sam have a total disregard for pop culture and the joy that is Lord of the Rings and Star Wars. In return Cas will recommend the geek books and Dean will mope and whine about how he isn’t interested in that stuff. When he's alone, though, with the tendrils of nightmares clinging to his chest, or the ache of a hard day hanging on his shoulders, he'll grip those worn pages and cling to the fantasy that he knows can never be true.

The minute smile Cas wears on days when Dean begrudgingly hands the book back, tabs sticking out of the sides marking the phrases he wanted to look further into, is worth it.

All in all, Cas moving in across the street has been one of the best things to happen to Dean in, well, a very long time. He’s never had a proper  _guy_  best friend before – Cas got upgraded to ‘best friend’ when he brought pie into school just for Dean – who actually takes pleasure in talking to Dean despite all his references and the fact that he is a total dick.

Nothing changes when John returns after a particularly long job. He doesn't know why he supposed it would, Dad has not been too bothered about who Dean and Sam have around, an old habit of being constantly on the road Dean thinks. Even so, Cas and Sam will be round while John is, and there isn't much more than a few short sentences fired between them. Dad drives trucks, from anywhere in the country, while working odd jobs on the side. It’s hard, what with Dean’s medical bills, to keep them above water; between the two of them, they scrape by. John has given everything for them to stay in one place; the addition of Dean’s worsening condition becoming a sore topic between the older two Winchester’s.

“So Dean... How’s the ticker?” John says, in the lull between a job, watching Dean as he cooks dinner.

Dean’s grateful Sam’s in his room studying, because honesty is what he strives for with his Dad.

And both of them do everything they can to protect Sammy.

He stops stirring the pasta.

“It’s becoming more painful. I’m going to ask the doc to increase the dose.” He can see his Dad wince from where he’s standing by the breakfast bar. Dean has to suppress an eye roll. This is a conversation they have had all too often since he was diagnosed. Adding salt to the pan, he goes back to stirring the pasta and then the sauce.

John looks away, Dean sighs.

“You guys will be alright, you know. If they don’t find a donor.” He mumbles the last part. Although he’s not particularly bothered by his own mortality, everyone’s going to day someday... He worries for his Dad and Sam.

They argue about the most mundane things and if Dean wasn’t there to cool them both down, he doesn’t know what would happen. He doesn’t want to think about Dad uprooting Sam right when he’s got a life and friends.

Slightly startled by the squeeze of a hand on his shoulder, Dean meets the weary grey of John’s eyes.

“Don’t talk like that boy, we’ll get you fixed.”

The spoon slips in his suppressed anger. “You don’t know that Dad!" He grits his teeth, "You have got to be able to deal with it for Sam.”

Something shifts in his Dad’s eyes and Dean can feel the guilt and the sadness rolling off him in waves.  _Fuck this_. He turns the food off the heat, brushing past John to put it onto plates. He clatters about the kitchen, doing everything with more force than necessary just  _because_. He can’t believe that this is his life and that at 17 he’s got to remind his Dad that if –when- Dean dies, he doesn’t actually die too.

“Dean where are you-“

“I’m not hungry.”

He stalks out the door and slams it, placing a hand over his heart so that he can steady the beat. He hates getting so worked up about it, he hates that he gets so claustrophobic around the caring and calm his Dad tries to emit that he has to get out. The pill bottle rattles in his inside pocket, the constant reminder that he could go into cardiac arrest at any minute and that strenuous emotion or physical exercise is bad for him.

Just like alcohol is bad for him and how inhaling exhaust fumes at the shop is bad for him.

Half-heartedly checking the road before crossing, he heads straight for Cas’ house.

Cas is totally the best person for when you want to forget something. The easy silences they fall into make Dean feel peaceful in a way that even his damaged heart can chill out to. Knocking on the door, he rocks on his heels as he waits.

The door opens slowly, Dean having to look down when he realises that Sam, who is way shorter than Cas, has answered.

“Hey Sam, is Cas in?”

When Sam sees that it’s him, the door opens fully. He's smiling at Dean knowingly. For a kid so young, Sam has a way of looking at you and  _understanding_. It creeped Dean out at first, that coupled with Cas’ staring was not a comfortable thing to be subject to.

“Hi Dean. He’s in his room.”

He ruffles Sam’s hair and laughs. “Thanks buddy.”

Hurriedly toeing off his shoes, he takes the stairs two at a time. It’s not something he usually does (he’s almost panting when he reaches the top) he just can’t wait to sit with his friend. Cas doesn’t have traditional pastimes like an Xbox or a laptop, so Dean finds them studying or reading. He’s pretty sure his grades have gone up a little since Cas has been here.

“Hey Cas.”

Cas looks up startled, the headphones to his iPod hanging around his neck and his hair mussed. In the centre of the room sits Cas, with an orbit of books surrounding him. The expression on his face makes Dean chuckle as he closes the door behind him.

“Hello Dean.” Cas finally replies, turning off the music.

There’s another thing he finds awesome about Cas. He doesn’t question much, especially if it was Dean’s idea.

“What you doing?” He plops down opposite Cas, feeling the tension from his Dad leaking out of him already. The thud of his heart is still there, but it’s fading, background noise to the happy mantra of ‘Cas’ in his head.

“Bible studies.” Mournfully, Cas lifts a bible in one hand and shrugs with the other shoulder. He hasn’t got the hang of certain mannerisms yet.

The whole religious names lives on for Cas and Sam, who have to read the Bible way more often than Dean’s even thought about the possibility of a God. Cas’ Mom is super strict, a total hardass who doesn’t look the type to want kids. Dean tries not to judge, because she is comfortable enough with Dean to both trust him with coming round and going out with her sons.

Still, Bible studies is a little... 17th century for his tastes.

“Well I call a break, how about we take the Sam’s to the park for a bit?”

Cas doesn’t seem overly convinced, taking his time in packing up his pens and notepad. He removes his headphones and places them on his bed. His back clicks as he stands, showing how long he’s been cowed over some dead guy’s journal.

Sam’s overly enthusiastic,  _nothing new there_ , when Dean asks him; Cas writes a quick note to his mother explaining their absence. Dean drops Sam a text and by the time they’re out of the house, his Sam is there waiting.

Moments like these has Dean suppressing a soppy grin. The playful banter and joyful teasing from all four of them as they walk the short distance to the park is a memory he doesn’t want to forget. Cas was a bit stick-up-his-ass at the start, being from a Biblical background can sometimes have that effect, Dean was sure to pull it out though.

That sounded more sexual than he meant.

Whatever.

The point is that pushing Sam’s on the swings while simultaneously having an intense discussion on the physics behind Star Wars has all four of them laughing again. Cas’ eyes dance, the corners of them crinkling as his nose scrunches up.

It’s the thought that follows that lets Dean know he’s totally screwed.

_Woah, he’s beautiful._


	4. But dude, Candy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October, which means warm clothes, cuddles and... Halloween.
> 
> So maybe it's not his favourite holiday, but there's candy and Cas, Sam Squared are laughing....
> 
> Maybe it's not so bad after all.

Summer falls away and blows on the wind into Autumn. It’s Dean’s favourite time of year; you’ve got the cold weather, he likes to cuddle – sue him – warm clothes and his favourite holiday: Halloween. It’s not his favourite for the dressing up or anything, even though Sam’s sure to drag him out this year, like he does _every year_.

He just likes the candy.

Lots of candy.

It’s also the one time of year that Sam will stop going all health nut (the kid should not even being thinking about that stuff yet) on him and act like a normal human being. He will make sure his brother indulges to the point of sickness. As a big brother, it is his duty. It's an excuse to relive some lost time, and to remind Sam how to have fun. The stress of his condition doesn't just affect him and he knows it.

Sighing, Dean steps out of the house. His Dad’s back on the road again, telling him to, even though he has done so for years, ‘look out for Sammy’ and ‘take care of yourself boy’. He supposes it’s more for John’s peace of mind than his own. The only thing he really wishes, now that his school has broken up for the holidays, is that he didn’t have to go to the hospital every two god damn weeks.

On top of that, his check up is soon and he hates those things. The sterile rooms and clean floors, the cold of the stethoscope against his chest and the, very nice lady nurses, rubber gloves tracing the ugly scar on his skin make him want to crawl out of his body all together. He hates the idea of looking weak, the way his pale skin shivers in the room and the luminescent lights change him from pale to sickly yellow; it makes him grimace, faltering in his pace.

His thoughts change from the impending horror show to Cas. Sweet, wonderful Cas. He passes his house on the way to the bus stop, looking up at the wide French windows, even though he knows that he isn’t there. Part of him wants to tell Cas everything, about the fire, his heart and why he looks like a jock but doesn’t play sports. Hell, there are times he wants to scream it to the world and let everyone know that confident, cocky Dean Winchester is _dying_.

He shakes his head. Cas would be too kind about it. Getting on the bus, he pays for his fare and takes the seat at the back. He looks out the window, feeling the bus jerk and watching as the world slowly begins to move again.

The walk to the hospital from the stop is calming, the thoughts of turmoil and destruction whirring away; with the sun still shining, although not giving off warmth anymore, and birds in the trees singing, it’s almost as cliché as a Disney movie. He forgot his iPod, again, so he whistles absently and kicks the stones along the gravel path.

Familiar doors open automatically and close behind him.

“Hey Lisa,” He mumbles, wincing at the bright white floors.

She looks tired, poor Lisa, and she barely manages to compose herself to smile before she hands him the chart while at the same time writing someone else’s prescription. Handing it back, he waits for her to go grab his pills. The second she takes the clipboard back, she completely forgets of his existence.

She’s busy, so Dean waits. He taps his foot idly against the tiles, knocking a tune with his fingers across the top of her glass desk.

5 minutes passes and he has had enough.

“Hey, Lis...?”

Startled, her head snaps up.

“Oh, Dean. God, I’m so sorry!” Hurrying, her fingers glide across the keys, her body in the motion of movement, still working so that she’s not actually left her desk yet. He can see the internal cogs of ‘just one more sentence’ go through her mind.

She half smiles in apology, leaving to go to the prescription room.

He’s waiting for her to return when he sees that head of scruffy brown hair and long trenchcoat coming down the hall.

_Ohfuckshit-_

Dean flails, trying to find somewhere to hide before Cas sees him; it’s like Cas can read his thoughts or something because just as Dean’s contemplating diving behind that ugly palm tree in the corner of the lobby, he looks up from what he’s reading. Dean freezes. Cocking his head, Cas stares at him and starts to walk over. Almost as if on cue, Lisa trundles back, flustering about it taking so long.

“I’m so sorry Dean, it’s a mess back there! Here’s your-“

“Dad’s liver meds, thanks Lis.”

She gives him a quizzical look that he only half sees, taking the two paces to meet Cas.

“Hey Cas, is everything alright?”

Why do most people come to the hospital? Only if something bad had happened right, so something must have happened to Sam! Oh god, he is half way through his horrendous panicking when Cas speaks.

“My brother is the head doctor here. This is where I have always been going.” He continues to stare at him, lips thinning, “Is everything alright with you, Dean?”

His eyes flick to the bottle of pills in his hand. Quickly, he pockets them (why are they even in your hand Dean?! Stop eye fucking your best friend and put them away) and turns his head to Lisa, who is doing a very bad job of pretending not to listen.

“I... They’re my Dad’s. He drinks a lot, and his liver is... I don’t know man, your brother’s the doctor.” He laughs, but it comes out strained, choking.

Frowning, Cas doesn’t look away. His chin is covered in a barely there scruff, the tan sticking out against the white backdrop.

“So you work here, huh?”

“Yes.”

They shift uneasily, neither of them specifically comfortable. The little audience of nurses they’ve gathered is hardly helping the tension mounting through the staring alone.

“So, you get breaks? Wanna go,” he searches for something in the vicinity of the hospital, oh boy, a high way and a field, “Get coffee and sit in the field?”

He studiously avoids the awws.

Fuck them. Cas doesn’t like him like that.

He doesn’t blush, but Cas definitely does. Grabbing the long sleeve of his friend’s coat, avoiding everyone’s gaze as he does so, he pulls Cas in the direction of the cafeteria. Between them both, Dean knowing his way around by now and Cas working at the hospital, they get their coffees for free and leave that ugly building.

They walk in silence, sipping softly at the styrofoam cups. So much is going unspoken between them and the pills in his pocket feel like lead.

He’s lying to his best friend.

To protect him, you have to protect him Dean. From yourself, and the fact that Sam will probably have a man sized bitch fit if he blurts the last 10 years to Cas. That kid knows too much for his age; he is far too grown up for 13. He’s almost as tall as him now too, which is ridiculous.

Cas moves off the path and sits down, without preamble or inviting Dean to come along.

“Cas,” He joins him carefully, sitting close but not too close, “Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

It’s too fast, too certain. Dean’s heart tugs at him again. His hand finds its way back over his scar.

“Are you sure you’re alright Dean?” The concern in Cas’ eyes is breaking him. That wall of resolve is crumbling as the waves crash into it over and over.

He looks away.

“Yeah man... I’m just nervous ‘cos of Halloween and all. It’s not my favourite holiday and I’d rather be marathoning Dr Sexy or something.”

Cas sighs beside him.

“I too find I am not overly fond of the affliction that people find for dressing up. We have never participated in the holiday celebrations before.”

“What?! That’s crazy.” He cuts Cas off, stunting his reply. “Well in that case I’ll dress up this year too. We all will. And you can come round and carve pumpkins at mine or something.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Cas’ gaze wonders back over to the rest of the field ahead of them. “Although the history concerning Samhain is interesting, Sam’s excitement this year has been... difficult.”

Laughing at that, Dean looks to his friend ruefully. Only Cas could make a fun holiday sound like the apocalypse. He nudges Cas’ shoulder, moving closer and holding his coffee on his bent knees with one hand.

“Yeah but dude, candy!”

Cas huffs, turning his head so that they’re so close, looking into each other’s eyes and losing themselves there.

“I am sure,” Cas drags, his tone dropping, “That you will once again surpass yourself in the amount of food you will manage to consume.”

“I resent that,” He snorts, watching the trees across the field from them, “Wadda you say, Cas, you me and Sam Squared, a night out scaring the bejesus out of people? A little midnight mayhem?”

The sincerity in Cas voice is what strikes him down.

“If you are there, then I would love to. You know how much I enjoy our time together.”

 

* * *

 

Halloween comes around before either of them knows it. However, with the promise of pumpkins and candy, also brings the imminent threat of school and exams.

The Novak’s come over on the 30th, to carve the pumpkins and watch scary movies. It’s so oddly domestic that Dean can’t help it when he watches them, Sam Squared and Cas, the feeling of a rack-shack little family growing around him. He already thinks of Samandriel as his brother and Cas is his... Best friend, and brother for all intensive purposes (given that his crush is never going to develop into something more).

Sam’s so excited the next night, Dean’s not even surprised that him and Bones have the same ‘oh my god Dean yes let’s do the thing let’s do the thing NOW’. He wonders what Cas and Sam are going to go as, it’s their first year after all. Him and Sammy have the duty to show them the awesomeness of candy and dressing up... Or just the candy.

He walks out of the house first, because he’s already dressed. He’s Batman, naturally. Holding the door open, he shouts inside the doorway to Sam.

“Yo, Sammy! Get your ass down here, come on.”

When he turns his head rolling his eyes, he looks across the street to see Cas, who’s costume he can’t see from here. He’s tapping his foot though, and that’s definitely his trenchcoat he’s still got on. The notion makes him roll his eyes again.

“Sam!”

“I’m comiiiiiiing.” Sam huffs, moose hooves tromping down the stairs.

Sam appears, dressed as...

“Dude what are you even dressed as?!” Dean asks incredulously, locking the door behind them and ushering Sam across the road.

“Ghandi.” Sam replies, waving enthusiastically at the other Sam.

“Ghandi!” Dean bursts out laughing, falling into Cas’ shoulder when they reach them. Cas is laughing too and now he can see what Cas is actually dressed as.

It’s what he normally wears, a shirt and smart slacks – trenchcoat of course – but with great black wings stretching out of his back. They’re handmade, amazingly so, the feathers individually glued to the frame. If he didn’t know better he’d say they were real.

“An angel, fitting.” Dean smirks. He manages to hide the complete and utter awe from his voice, because here, under this street lamp with _wings_ hanging behind him, Cas looks... He finds the only word that comes to him again is beautiful and immediately wants to slap himself for it. He’s not a traditional angel, by far, but since when did they ever live by a rule book.

Cas shrugs; yeah, he gets shrugging now.

“Hey Sam, Dean what do you think of my costume?”

Samandirel does a turn, making the army belt tied around his waist jiggle and the helmet slip down his face. Dean lifts it up, ruffling Sam’s hair and places the helmet on properly.

He salutes the young sergeant, making both the Sam’s giggle.

“Come on Dean, we’ve got sweets to get!”

They run off ahead, making headway with the first door they see that has decorations.

“Hey Sam, let’s just hope we don’t see any clowns tonight, eh?”

Stumbling, Sam turns back, bitchfacing him full force. Samandriel rocks on the spot, his excitement manifesting on his face and in his ecstatic jumping, pulling Sammy by the hand down the first pathway.

Cas’ eyes catch his own and they both chuckle. His hand squeezes Cas’ shoulder, offering a last comfort before he runs after the two teenagers.

“It’s going to be a long night, Dean.” His friend shouts.

Dean runs backwards, clearing his throat to put on his best Batman voice and growls.

“Then come howl at the moon with me, angel.” 


	5. Jumping To Conclusions...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a crush on Cas badly.
> 
> They finally have the Impala :D
> 
> Sam, Charlie, literally Cas, ships it but one unfortunately misheard conversation will send it all crumbling down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry for any mistakes// there's a lot /a lot/ of dialogue in this, but I promise it's necessary babes c:
> 
> Comment, let me know what you think umu

“Yo Bobby!” Dean shouts, hauling Sam in out of the wind and pulling the door shut behind them.

They haven’t been to Bobby’s in weeks and he’s glad to be back in the warm comfort of the mess and clutter that seems to always take over at the old man’s. He’d make sure they came up more often, especially when Dad’s gone, but the bus journey takes _ages_ and with Sam growing up now, he doesn’t want to hang out with his big brother and their weird kind-of-but-not-really-uncle who lives in a junk yard.

The wind batters against the wooden frame, whistling through the cracks in the framework. Dean smiles to himself, ruffling Sammy’s hair as he bounds off.

It sounds like home.

“Hey boys.” Comes the gruff reply from somewhere in the house, guessing that it’s most probably the same place Bobby usually is (when he’s not surrounded by the junkers outside) Dean follows Sam into the library.

“Hi Uncle Bobby.” Sam mumbles, settling down on the first clean surface he sees. He methodically brings out his books, a pen and his phone.

Noticing his baby brother’s fixation with his mobile recently, he meets Bobby’s raised eyebrows under his cap with a smirk.

“So Sammy,” Dean perches on the edge of a table, scooting back and catching a few books before they fall. He winces, shooting Bobby an apologetic look. “Who’s the girl?”

Instantly, Sam flails, he drops his phone and bitchfaces Dean. He chuckles, standing up and moving over to his little brother.

“Come on Sammy, is she pretty?” He shoves his shoulder.

Sam pushes his hand off and a wicked grin takes over his face.

“Who’s the boy? Is it Ca-” He retorts, in an equally bitchy voice.

Dean hits him again, harder. An intense noogie fight ensues, Sam standing up in a n attempt to tackle Dean across the room.

“Boys, you’re killing me here.”

They both freeze and stop bickering to glare at each other.

“Sorry Bobby.” Mumbling, Dean pushes Sam back to his seat, still grinning when Sam sticks his tongue out.

The older man stands; rolling his eyes and, with an empty bottle in one hand and an open book in the other, walks over. He drops the book down in front of Sam and the bottle in the bin, stopping before Dean.

“Your Daddy left the Impala here, he thought it would be good for you boys to have a car for a bit.”

Suddenly, the world seems a little bit brighter. Dean hasn’t got to take the Impala out for a drive in ages, not to mention all the maintenance she probably needs because of winter and everything. His mind is practically working in overdrive, his head spinning with the possibilities of getting to have his fingers back under the hood.

He grabs Bobby, pulling him into a hug.

“Thanks Bobby.”

Bobby pulls away, patting his shoulder with an affectionate ‘idjit’.

“You boys staying for something to eat then.” He says, dropping the bottle into the bin and walking into the kitchen.

The Winchester’s eyes meet. At the same time all three of them say:

“Takeaway.”

3 pizzas, a bottle of beer (for Dean, which was met with the continued complaint from Sam) and an awkward ‘take care of yourselves’ later, Dean slides into the drivers seat of the Impala.

“Oh baby, it’s good to be back in you.” He sighs, content and feeling the happy thrum settle in his chest.

“Is that what you say to Cas when you see him?” Sam says, rolling his eyes as he climbs into the passenger side.

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean cranks up the heating, it’s fucking freezing now, relishing the moment when he turns the ignition and baby roars into life. She purrs, the soothing rubble that reverberates through his whole being.

He drives out of Bobby’s, honking twice in goodbye; the second they hit the highway, he keeps one hand on the wheel and begins to flick through the cassette tapes. Finding what he is looking for, he puts it in and turns the volume up. He side eyes Sam, who is doing a terrible job of looking like he hates it, grinning when their eyes meet.

The chorus hits when they’re pulling back into their street, the two of them belting out the lyrics to Survivor ‘Eye of The Tiger’. Dean’s breathless, sitting in the car to catch his breath once they’re in the drive. He pointedly ignores the brief flicker of concern in Sam’s eyes, throwing on his mask and pushing the car door open.

From the path they can hear Bones barking, making sure the whole street knows that they’re home. Sam holds out his arms to half catch him while Dean picks up the mail. He flips through the first few, however, cut off by his third yawn, he throws them in the general direction of the breakfast bar and plods up the stairs.

“You did all your homework right Sammy?” He stops at the top of the stairs, calling down.

“Yeah. You took your pills today right Dean?” Sam shouts back up.

“Yeah.”

Their nightly ritual complete, Dean flops into bed.

He dreams of smoke and fire, watching helplessly as it cloaks his sleep and wakes, sweaty and panting.

He does not get any more sleep that night.

The pain in his chest hits a peak, taking longer than normal to settle down again. He picks up the tattered Vonnegut book from the nearest surface of his bed, resigning himself to remain awake for the hours of darkness.

 

The Impala makes everything so much easier. He drives him, Cas and Sam Squared to school and takes them home. Charlie is with them too, because he promised her to either a Mario Cart championship or the next season of GOT as a marathon session.

It’s promises like these that you have to keep with your best friend, trust him.

Cas has to work, unfortunately, so he can’t join in the fun. Sam can stay round though and it takes a small amount of coaxing – promising that while Sammy does his homework, Sam will do his Bible studies – with Naomi before the four of them burst through the door. Bones excitedly welcomes everyone, chasing after the Sam’s when they bolt upstairs.

“I’ll come check that you’ve done your homework in an hour, ok Sam?” He shouts, barely having gotten his shoes off.

“Yeah ok Dean... Can we have pizza for dinner?” Sam’s gangly frame appears at the top of the stairs.

“Dude, we had pizza last night. Homemade burgers sound good to you?”

“Duh.” Charlie and the Sam’s all say at the same time.

He shakes his head, chuckling as Charlie sets up the TV. The apology that the championship’s off, at least until the Sam’s have done their retrospective work and he’s made dinner, but she cuts him off with a knowing look.

Instead of questioning how she _knows_ , he heads to the kitchen, letting her put the next episode of GOT on in the background. She takes her place on the couch, giving him a thumbs up from across the room.

Dean starts on the patties, chopping the onion and bits to mix with the mince. His half-hearted scan of the fridge reminds him that he’s going to have to go shopping soon. Sighing, he also chops up various salad pieces as a complement for Sam. Him and Charlie and the other Sam are so alike in their food tastes that if it’s a burger they’ll eat it.

The pan’s heating up and he’s doesn’t even realise he’s zoned out until he sees Charlie sat at the breakfast bar staring at him. He moves to start putting the patties on the hot pan and begins to cut up the rolls when the onslaught of questions hits him.

“So... You didn’t tell me you had a thing for Cas.”

His hand slips, nearly burning himself in the process.

“I have a thing or Cas? You must be thinking of the other Dean, you know, the one that would actually be good enough for him.”

-

 

* * *

 

 

“Thank you Sam.”

Cas had managed to get off his shift early and had currently been standing outside Dean’s for 5 minutes before Sam had finally come to let him in.

He steps inside; toeing off his shoes and moves in the direction of Dean’s voice. Sam runs back upstairs, not that he pays much attention to that when he can hear what Dean is talking about.

“There’s no way. Not now not ever. There is no ‘me and Cas’. He’s just my friend ok Charlie-“

Cas stands in the doorway, watching the look of pure horror roll across Dean’s features. He clears his throat, missing whatever it was that Charlie had to say as she dejectedly slinks back to the sofa. He can hear the voices from the TV but can’t focus on anything other than Dean.

Dean who’s standing, the fat from the pan spitting onto his bare arm, though he doesn’t flinch. They continue to hold each other’s gaze until Dean visibly shakes himself out of it.

“Hey Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

That’s ok, that Dean doesn’t like him like that. What was he thinking anyway? He hadn’t only started talking to Cas out of coincidence and however much Cas wishes there was more between them, he will remain content with the friendship they have built.

Yes, it’s fine... Totally fine.

This is why you shouldn’t get crushes on your probably straight, definitely not interested best friend.

He swallows the sick building in his throat; maybe Meg will still be interested in taking him to that party this weekend.

For the first time in his life, Castiel can truly say that he needs a drink. 


	6. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's mopey.
> 
> Sam's sick of it.
> 
> Charlie plays cupid (thank jesus for Charlie).
> 
> Cas manages to fuck up again, but this time he fixes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? c;  
> (mistakes will be fixed)

Dean has never been a particularly ‘mopey’ person. He hasn’t had crushes – Lisa Breaden doesn’t count, that was one great weekend – because most of the people at school ignore him, and he isn’t attracted to any of those assholes anyway. He’s been around, a bit, when he was 16 or so, but it’s nothing like this right now.

It feels like the adios, always with the adios.

The dynamic he and Cas had has changed. Everything’s changed. Cas still hangs out with him and Charlie, most of the time, they still talk in lessons, some of the time, and he comes round Dean’s, when it’s time to take Sam home.

Dean is miserable.

Not only has Cas effectively distanced himself – there’s no more of that ‘personal space Cas!’ lie he has to spew anymore – but he’s also gotten himself a girlfriend. The worst thing is, he doesn’t know how long Cas had been standing there or how much he heard.

It’s pathetic, he generally is these days, so instead of facing it in the way he should, he more or less gives up.

On school, on life... On his friends.

His best (guy) friend hates him because he had a stupid crush and, just so poetically, there’s nothing he can do about it. That’s basically a summary of his life.

Mom dies. Nothing he can do about it.

He gets fucking heart disease, some kind of aggravated angina that makes him have these attacks when he pushes himself too far, sorry Dean, you’ll have to live with it.

A crush that pushed away the best friend you’ve ever had, oh well, you’ll be dead soon anyway; it’s probably for the best and all, save him from the pain later.

He shakes his head.

The only reason he actually gets out of bed is to take Sam to school and make an effort to pretend he is also going to go to school.

Everything in his chest just feels so _tight_ like his heart is compacting and giving up already. It’s ridiculous to suggest that Cas had been helping with that – that’s just the thing though. His angina attacks have been more frequent and his doctor tells him it’s because of the stress.

‘Avoid stressful situations, Dean.’

His whole life is a ‘stressful situation’. Inside he’s screaming, clawing at the confines of his skin, desperate to let everyone know that the man he wants to spend the rest of his (still no donors yet, you have to stay positive Dean) currently looking very short, life with lives across the god damn street and hates his guts.

So sue him, if, when he gets home from dropping Sam off, he simply collapses into bed and pities himself all day. Charlie comes over, brings him work and tries to get him up and out but it won’t work.

You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

He’s not even sure he _deserves_ to be saved.

Sam’s not stupid either, which makes it worse. His little brother’s blown off this girl, Jess, to stay in with him two nights in a row and they’ve had a few choice arguments about ‘you’re giving up, Dean!’

He’s sick of it.

He’s sick of burdening everyone and maybe it took Cas longing him off for Meg, who is a complete bitch but Dean can’t help liking her, hoping she’ll be good for Cas, for him to realise it.

Spitefully, he stares at the two white pills in his hands, the ever present thud of his heart ticking away in his head. He ponders the day when he won’t hear that anymore. The pull on his heart is too strong; it stifles his thoughts and pushes the air from his lungs. He can’t do this to Sammy.

Rolling over, Dean swallows the pills and picks his phone up. He scrolls through his texts, finding Charlie’s name and taps on that conversation.

There’s a party this weekend.

And he’s going to be there.

 

Cas is not an idiot. Or at least, he doesn’t consider himself to be.

Things between him and Dean had been strained to say the least. That whole week had been the most awful experience he's ever had the displeasure of enduring; it has tested him to his limits. Dean had tried to carry on the way they were, but he could no longer get that close. He couldn’t let himself fall for Dean again, not after Dean confessing how he really felt about him.

He got with Meg that Friday. She is blunt, harsh and in many ways they complemented each other. In others they didn’t. He liked her kisses though, the slide of her body against his. The warmth against the chill of winter; even if he wished it was green eyes that stared at him and callused hands holding his own.

Dean doesn’t come to school on Monday.

Dean hasn’t been at school since Friday. It is now the following Friday. Castiel had been trying to work out what to say. Was it even his place to ask anymore?

So he chooses a cowards way out – because he values his and Sam’s friendship, too – and he waits until Dean goes out to work.

Samandriel gives him a knowing look, to which he scowls, as he leaves the house and crosses the road. He rings the bell to the Winchester’s house, standing back off the porch step, waiting for Sam to open the door.

Sam, of course, does, but the expression that flits across his face when he sees it is Cas outside changes dramatically.

“What do you want, ruin my brother’s life again?”

He’s not used to hearing such venom in Sam’s tone. Sometimes he forgets that for how tough Dean looks, Sam matches it; if not out doing him with the way that he is growing.

“What?” He asks instead, because the last time he checked it was Dean who was avoiding him.

Gesturing for him to come inside, Cas cautiously enters the house. He turns, waiting for Sam to speak after he has shut the door.

The moment he does, the shorter boy pins him against the wood, hands slamming into him.

“What the hell did you say to him?”

His hazel eyes dance dangerously, unflinching to Cas’ older age or taller height.

“I have not said anything to him.”

Sam scoffs. “Yeah, well maybe that’s the problem.”

“Look, boy, I don’t know what Dean has made you think-“

“HE LIKES YOU CAS!” Sam shouts, punctuating his statement with another harsh shove before pulling back. “And I like you too. You’re a good friend Cas, I get it ok. If you don’t want him like that, will you please stop _ignoring_ him?”

It isn’t until now that Cas realises how tired and anxious Sam looks. His hair is flopped over his face, the start of bags clinging to his young eyes.

“Sam, what’s wrong with Dean?”

It’s like he’s left a loaded gun in the middle of the room. Sam doesn’t even move; he’s hardly certain he is even breathing.

“He was going to ask you out and then you went and got with Meg.” Sam spits, pushing past him to open the door. He looks over his shoulder, eyes meeting his own with his lips pressed into a fine line. “I thought you liked him too. I just want my brother to be happy.”

“He... Likes me? But he said-“

“Cas, you are my friend but you’re a fucking idiot! Dean doesn’t do feelings, Cas. He likes you. Now go. I have homework to do.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say.

He finds himself walking out of the Winchester house with turmoil rife in his gut. How could this possibly be true?

Had he been hurt, thinking what Dean had said about him meant that he wanted him to be with Meg, no, this whole time all he had been doing to Dean was hurting him.

He feels sick.

Heading straight to his room, he closes the door behind him.

He has to tell Dean the truth, and he will take it from there. Cas picks up his phone and scrolls first to Meg. He feels bad for dumping her over text, though his bluntness will probably come across less sharp in a typed message than if he were face to face.

The second name he scrolls to is Charlie. It’s time for him to fight for Dean.

 

| _Are you sure this is going to work?_

| _Of course I am. I’m the Queen._

Castiel doesn’t understand that reference, if it is one. What could Charlie possibly been Queen of? Dean had never mentioned Charlie being a part of the royal bloodline; then again he never did think to ask.

He tells his mother he is sleeping over at Dean’s tonight, which, if everything goes as planned, he will actually be doing.

The house that is hosting the party is massive. It is far larger than either his or Dean’s houses put together. Absently, he wonders what Gabriel and Balthazar would think of him now: going to a party. They would be thrilled, actually. He will have to mention it the next time he calls Gabriel.

Pushing through the door, he is greeted by the heavy smell of sweat and alcohol. The music is almost deafeningly loud, a droning repetitive beat that makes Cas scowl. He searches the crowd in the hallway for red hair, pulling out his phone as he moves forward in an attempt to find a space that is not occupied by gyrating bodies.  

            | _I am here._

Two boys push past him, causing him to look up.

            | _We’re almost there._

He tries to remain out of the way as much as possible, scanning through the mass of people to see Charlie or Dean. However, in one of these sweeps, Cas catches sight of dark red hair. He freezes.

“You think that’s funny Clarence? I thought you were sweet on me.” Her voice booms through the pounding music.

“I’m sorry Meg... I like someone else.”

She comes into view, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Rolling her eyes, she sighs, leaning forwards into his space; backing him against the wall, she smiles.

“I guess you _were_ his boyfriend first.” She pauses, “A pizza man, for old time’s sake and I’ll leave you alone?”

He grimaces. He liked Meg. Actually, honestly, truthfully, for all she was cruel and mean, she stuck by her morals and was deceptively smart. He pulls on her arm, pinning her against the wall and kisses her, closed mouth for this final time. Finished, he walks backwards, hand sliding into his pocket to get his phone.

            | _We’re here_

He looks up.

Charlie is shaking her head at him and the only thing he sees of Dean is the back of his head as he walks away. He tries to push forwards, to reach Dean, to explain, but Charlie presses a surprisingly strong hand to his chest.

“That was your shot, Vulcan.”

She turns away, melding into the crowd.

Desperate, he wades in after her, turning right into the main room where people are dancing. He can’t see Dean staying in the same room as the offensively pop tune that came on so he turns back, heading to the other room.

People are intensely making out and getting a little too excited, making Cas back away. He’s not entirely comfortable with the near orgy happening right in front of his face.

His search lands him back in the hall, pressing on into the kitchen. He steps out of the way, letting a few girls leave the room past him. There are less people in here; he finds Dean easily.

He has a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, a _half empty_ bottle, and he is scowling at Charlie as she tries to take it away from him. Huffing, Dean brushes past her, telling her to go find Gilda and goes outside.

Cas waits, watching Charlie as she hunches in defeat but eventually goes after him. Even though he knows he’s the last person Dean will want to see right now, Cas goes to follow him when a large hand braces him to the wall.

“Get off.” He growls at the boy, whose white teeth shine in the gloomy room.

“Come on, don’t you want to have a little fun?”

Cas pushes him off, turning his arm around the boy’s back and pressing his face into the hall wall opposite. Sensing the shift in the air, Cas sees the group of angry looking boys and drops the kid’s arm.

“I’m uh... Not looking for trouble.”

He tries to leave but they force him back, creating a circle around him. Cas has no doubt he will be able to handle them, although the last thing he wants is to fight. He has to get to Dean.

They throw the first punch and pretty soon it’s like 360 degree combat. He is doing better off than his drunk, over hormonal peers and has the upper hand. Another body suddenly joins the fight and he’s grabbing the sleeve of Cas’ coat, pulling him out the back and into the darkness. Cas lets himself be dragged through the side gate and to the front where they begin to approach the familiar outline of the Impala, even in the low light.

He is shoved in the passenger seat, barely aware of the sound of the back doors opening too before the driver slides into their side. Dean is breathing heavily, though Cas doesn’t dare speak yet, his hand settling over the place it always does.

Castiel’s brother may be the doctor, but he knows something isn’t right.

Shouts fill the front garden as the group push their way out the door. Dean turns the ignition, the car roars into life.

They drive over the speed limit and in near silence. Even the quiet of the cassette tape sounds like an ominous groan. Dean stops at Charlie’s first their eye’s meeting in the rear view. He grimaces a smile.

Dean pulls off again, not so much as glancing in Cas’ direction. The buzz of his phone draws Cas out of his practically comatose state.

            |Don’t mess this up ok

It takes impossibly long to get back to their street. Dean pulls up outside his house, cutting the ignition, not moving any further than that. Cas steals a glance, noting the way Dean is white knuckling the steering wheel; then the droplets of red covering his hands.

“Dean your-“

His head whips round with a glare. “Don’t do that.” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t pretend you care.”

The air is knocked out of Cas’ lungs, he jolts with the slam of Dean’s car door.

Getting out quickly, he scrambles around the bonnet and grabs Dean’s hand. He tugs on it, hard enough to spin his friend round and pin him against the steel frame. Dean tries to resist, move, but before he can say anything, Cas kisses him.

Dean goes stock still against him.

Cas starts to pull away and as he does so, Dean rings both his hands in his hair, dragging his head back and crushing their lips together again. His tongue licks at the seal of Dean’s lips, his body pressing into Dean’s, deepening the kiss. Their tongues slide together, battling for dominance, while Cas’ hands drop to Dean’s waist.

He eventually pulls away, panting.

“Don’t ever doubt how much I care about you, Dean.”

Dean lets his head drop against Cas’ chest. He puffs out a breath, the white mist rising from his mouth. Taking Cas’ hand and, with a little insistence, he leads him towards the house.

“You’re such an asshole Cas.”

There isn’t much heat in it – he is correct – and they walk up the stairs to the bedroom Cas knows so well. They settle into the bed awkwardly, Cas not bothering to get changed and snuggling straight under the covers, Dean stripping to boxers and a shirt.

After a few minutes of being on the opposite sides of the bed, Cas rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around Dean, pulling him closer. He tenses at first, and then relaxes scooting further into Cas’ embrace.


	7. Fairytale In Gabe's Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time transition
> 
> School days, after school days, brothers, parks and Christmas eve!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't write transitions of time. And I'm less confident of my characterization. Anyway, here it is c;

Things change at school. Neither of them gives a fuck what people think; they walk around, hand in hand. Dean will kiss Cas as he leaves him to go to lesson and they make out lazily in the library at lunch. Charlie thinks they’re gross but they both see the secret smile she fails to hide behind her hand and eventually, her and Gilda sort it out too, the 4 of them basically desecrating the back of the library.

Dean feels happy like he hasn’t in years.

The tension in his chest falls away into something that he won’t go too far into. It pains him to think that if he did examine the warmth, the little pick up in pace when he sees the flap of tan, that what he might find would be love. Love. What his Dad felt for Mary, what Bobby felt for Karen. Dean shivers.

The thought brings him onto one of his favourite things about Cas. He and Sammy get on. They talk about books and Latin and weird nerd stuff that, despite Dean being the _real_ nerd here, even he can’t keep up with them. When him and Cas come out of the movies, the Sam’s and their friends will be waiting, coming out of their own film with big goofy grins. He squeezes Cas’ hand, because he doesn’t know what to do with being happy.

Whenever he’s been happy before it has been violently ripped away from him.

He kisses Cas when the thought of losing this, _them_ , gets on top of him. He’ll kiss the words he can’t bring himself to say into Cas’ skin, hold him close and treasure what he has for now, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

 

Spending time with Cas is easy, he’s slipping into a readymade mould; there is always the initial awkwardness, they are anything but perfect. They still study, read books, watch bad movies, it’s just that now there is infinitely more touching and kissing going on in between. They do mundane things that 3 years ago Dean would have cringed at doing with anyone.

It feels so domestic it’s almost ridiculous.

Cas finishes work before him, so he’s always texting him, telling him to hurry up or sending him these anatomical words that Dean doesn’t know the meaning of. When he gets back from work, he’ll drop onto the threadbare sofa and send Cas a text. Not 5 minutes later, Cas will let himself in, draping himself over the side of the sofa to collapse on Dean with an ‘oof’.

On days like these they’ll order takeaway, Sam will come down after doing his homework (with his phone in his hand, which he stares at with increasing intensity) and they’ll stick a trashy film on, basking in the other’s company. Cas will lie on top of Dean, like a big lazy cat, more often than not missing the entire thing. Dean can see out of the corner of his eye when Cas is just staring at him, looking at him with the same fascination as the stars or a difficult equation.

He gets self conscious about it, especially when Cas literally starts tracing constellations of stars into the fabric of his shirt. If it gets dangerously close to touching his scar, he will flip them, pinning Cas into the cushions and kissing him. They slot together so easily, mouth to mouth, hip to hip, legs entangled. Of course when Sam actually does pay attention he squawks indignantly for them to stop.

 

Autumn rolls into winter, and he means that sincerely as the snow begins to fall. Dad phones, to explain that he won’t be home for Christmas and to check up. Dean gets the call and looks up, he watches Sammy showing Cas and Sam how to play monopoly, the soft light of the living room warm against the stark cold of outside. He doesn’t think it will be too bad without his Dad there; it’s not like their first year apart.

He does cringe at one thought though. Neither of them has told their parents that they are now together. Dean worries for Cas more than himself, what with being from a religious family. 

Dean also has to be more careful going to get his pills from the hospital, and when he takes them. With Cas around almost constantly, he’s had to become more secretive about it. Sam argues with him to simply tell Cas, he’s sticking around for the moment. He hates it, lying to Cas. He hates how close he’s gotten and how he doesn’t feel like he can _be_ without Cas ever again. The bastard has gripped his heart tight.

After school, they go to the park and have snow ball fights until someone gets a bunch of snow shoved down their shirt (Dean usually does this to Sam). 

Speaking of, Sam finally mans up and asks the girl he likes out – Jessica. She’s sweet and kind, but plucky too. Dean ruffles Sam’s hair and hands him a wad of pills so he can take her on a date, ignoring the way Cas looks at him as he does so. Sammy’ll bring her over too and Dean will cook them all something, even if it means his little brother is growing up faster than he wants.

The snow freezes, compacting from soft and fluffy to hard ice. He and Cas walk alone through the park on the way home, when they don’t have their brothers, hands entwined. Sometimes they get cups of coffee and sit like an old married couple on a freezing bench, content to lean against one another for heat and watch the world pass them by.

With Cas, Dean doesn’t mind being... Submissive. He lets Cas lead their relationship, he supposes is the right word. He has to take on so much responsibility, and, he thinks, Cas knows that. He instantly filled the role of ‘over protective, caring boyfriend’ without a second thought. Dean’s the little spoon (which is fucking lovely in the cold weather), Cas will pull Dean into a hug, as though he can sense that Dean is falling apart, Cas even brought him pecan pie to the shop once. Pecan! They never have his favourite anywhere; it’s almost always sold out. Cas later admitted to having to go to 3 separate shops to get it. In thanks, Dean drove them to White Castle for burgers.

And he knows that that is so out of character for his best friend. Cas isn’t subtle, or delicate, with his feelings. Dean tries to keep up. Where Cas is unsure or nervous, Dean is there to support him. They’re preparing to apply to colleges soon, which Cas is already freaking out about. He cooked homemade burgers that night.

School is stressful, too much work and too much desire to stay in bed (together). At the weekends, Dean will take them out for a late night drive. They’ll drive for hours; just them, the open road and a good cassette.

That’s Dean’s second favourite thing to do with Cas, going out in the Impala. Drive anywhere, for any amount of time. Cas is a solid, silent presence by his side, and when he has one of his angina attacks, he thinks of those strong hands on him instead of the customary count down from 100. It works much better.  

 

Cas is a hog. He hogs the covers and he steals his clothes and Dean has to hide his boner every time he sees Cas with his faded ACDC t shirt on. Cas looks very good in his clothes. They haven’t gone any further than heated making out yet, Dean assumes Cas wants to wait for his 18th (which hello, it’s nearly Christmas now so that’s only a month away). So, in dismay, Dean has to jerk off alone, when Cas has gone home in his shirt, to the mental image of him.

He doesn’t know how Cas explains it to his Mom. ACDC or any of the other variety of band tees that Cas pinches are definitely not dress shirts and collared polo’s; Dean has been doing his own fair share of pilfering.

He goes to school in Cas’ shirts, not too big, slightly too small across his shoulders, and grins when Cas slides into the passenger seat, his eyes darkening possessively. Sam makes a gagging sound, usually marking when Dean and Cas have just been mentally undressing one another, and Dean calls ‘bitch’ fondly.

Cas always hands his shirt back, with the same pout on his face and grumble in his tone:

‘It doesn’t smell like you anymore’.

And if that doesn’t send his heart fluttering, shy of painful, he’d be lying.

 

School breaks up for Christmas.

Dean makes an effort to hang out more with just him and his brother. The little bitch better not think he’s escaping Dean’s affections. He takes him to see the new Marvel film, which Sam geeks out about as much as he does.

What shocks him, though, is when Sam suggests that they go for a drive and get pie. He knows what that means; Sam is trying to butter him up for something. Dean plays along, they drive to the nearest shop and buy way more food than either of them can eat – he’s splurging for time with his brother, screw it.

He may have further indulged in buying Sam a new laptop for Christmas, by working overtime at the garage. Sam doesn’t need to know that yet, Dean thinks to himself with a smirk.

“Come on then Sammy, what’s up?”

Sam looks at him, a startled moose that he had been caught. Really, Dean has been taking care of the kid since he was 4 years old, there’s nothing they can hide from each other.

“I wanted to ask you...”

Sam trails off. Glancing at him, Dean stops shoving the pie in his face in his best attempt to show Sam he has his full attention besides the slippery roads he’s driving on.

“Ask me...” He prompts.

“Well seeing as you’ve got Cas and I know that Dad’s not going to be here for Christmas and I know it’s really important to you and I’m your brother and this would be our first Christmas apart but Jess’ Mom invited me to stay over for Christmas and she said you could come too because she knows that you look after me but I figured you’d want to spend it with Cas.”

How Sam managed to get that out all in one breath remains a mystery.

“That wasn’t a question.” Dean points out; alternative to telling Sam his gut reaction that there’s no way he’s going to say yes to what he’s not asking. As much as it hurts him, if Sam goes to Jess’ he will get the first normal Christmas he’s ever had. Sam deserves that. The kid has had to sacrifice a lot, because of Dean, because of Dad, because he’s a Winchester.

Dean already knows what he’s going to say, once Sam stops constipating over getting the question out already.

Taking a deep breath, he feels Sam’s gaze on him.

“Can I stay round Jess’ for Christmas?”

“Yes.”

Sam sputters.

“Yes?!” He lunges across from his side of the car, “Thanks Dean! Wow this is going to be great.” Cautiously, Sam pulls back, “Are you sure you’re going to be ok?”

He scoffs. “You’re the baby Sammy, I’ll be fine. Remember to wear a condom big man.”

Sam punches his arm. “Eww, Dean gross.”

He still has a goofy grin on his face as he says it.

 

Cas is nervous the next time Dean sees him. He can tell. The tiny frown at the bridge of his nose and the way he stares, not his usual stare, just zoned out on nothing.

“Cas buddy, you ok?” He nudges Cas’ shoulder, nearly pushing him off his bed as the movement takes Cas by surprise.

“Dean do you have any plans for Christmas?” Cas asks, swallowing thickly and avoiding Dean’s gaze.

“Uh no, Sam’s staying out,” He rubs his hand at the back of his neck, “I was gunna ask you if you and Sam wanted to come round or somethin’.”

Head snapping up, Cas pushes into Dean’s lap, forcing him to lie down with a yelp. He grins, leaning forward to whisper in Dean’s ear, in a way that never ceases to get Dean to quiver.

“Come to my brother’s with me.”

Dean’s foremost reply is to shake his head fiercely in ‘no’. He is up to date with the dynamic of Cas’ family and his 5 siblings; being invited to one of the brother’s does not sound particularly desirable. It won’t be Michael, who is only in contact with Cas because he feels some delayed sense of guilt over their absentee father. It could be Gabriel, who although will be the life of the party will take the piss at every opportunity. Balthazar is away in England so it won’t be him. It’s obviously not Sam... He’s inviting him to Gabriel’s.

It’s Dean’s turn to gulp. He doesn’t want to answer no, per say.

First things first though, he needs to know where Gabriel is. He’s not going to stay miles away from his brother in case he gets into trouble and requires Dean’s assistance.

“Where does he live?”

In Dean’s absence of speaking, Cas had begun kissing along is jaw, which is really distracting, and his hands had come up of their own accord to massage the back of Cas’ scalp, fingers tangled in his messy hair.

“10 minutes from here, this is a yes?”

Cas looks so damn hopeful, that’s close enough for him to be there for Sammy, and it’s not like he had any plans anyway.

“Duh.”

Dean pulls his hands down, crashing their lips together, relishing in the growl that opens Cas’ mouth so that he can flick his tongue inside. The taste of coffee and a bitter zing of cinnamon from the cookies earlier lingers. Laughing, Cas messes up the kiss, resting his head in the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder.

Dean can feel his heart racing in his chest. Cas must feel it too, as he fists Dean’s shirt there, either consciously or not, knowing that the rhythm is for him.

 

Dean drops Sammy off first, the day before Christmas Eve. He walks him up to the door, carrying his bags, while Cas and Sam stay in the car. Apparently, Cas’ Mom had to work too and Sam’s going to Gabe’s with them.

Sammy’s all but jumping up and down, excitement evident in his wide hazel eyes. Dean places the bags down on the door step, letting Sam knock. While they wait, he turns his little brother who isn’t as tall as him yet, thank you very much, bracing both hands on his shoulders. He hauls him into a hug, right at the moment the door opens.

“Dean...” He doesn’t let go, even as Jess’ Mom awwws. Dean grins. “Deaaan you can let go now.”

Sam huffs, a full bitchface glaring up at him when Dean pushes him away.

“You have a good Christmas and be good for Mrs Moore Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.” If anything, the bitchface gets worse and he blushes beet red. Sam picks up his own bags and walks inside. Jess giggles from behind her Mom.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay too, Dean?” Jess’ Mom smiles at him, her eyes betraying her sympathy towards Dean. He doesn’t want sympathy, he’s damn proud to be there for his brother.

He jerks his head back towards the car.

“No thank you Ma’am, but you let me know if he’s any trouble.”

“He’s a very sweet boy,” At this point, Jess drags Sam away, who waves distractedly in goodbye, “You have a good Christmas.”

“You too.”

Dean’s boots crunch along the gravel path, his hand playing with his phone in his pocket. It vibrates once.

            | _Jerk_

Smirking, Dean shakes his head he climbs into the driver’s seat. He types back a quick message and hits send, turning the ignition.

            | _Bitch_

Wizzard ‘I wish it could be Christmas everyday’ plays quietly in the background of their drive, that is until they reach a stop light and some douchbag has one of those traditional Bible songs on. He knows that once they get to Gabriel’s, Cas and Sam will be free of all of that shit so he meets Cas’ eyes in the rear view and cranks up the volume. Despite it being freezing outside, he turns up the heating and rolls down the windows so that people on the sidewalk turn to look at them. Sam is cackling in the back and Cas looks pretty uncomfortable, but the full on glower from the driver to his left is absolutely worth it.

He doesn’t turn the music down once they’re driving, he does put the windows up, along the snow covered streets. Resorting to bad singing and loud music, by the time they reach Gabriel’s house, a huge 3 story building, even Cas is belting out the chorus to ‘Merry Christmas Everybody.’

“Looks like he started the party without us.” Dean says, turning the volume down.

It’s pretty obvious which house is Gabriel’s. The whole front surface is covered in tinsel and what looks like toilet paper, the music is practically shaking the windows and the front door is wide open, people trying to barge their way in.

The time is 5pm.

Dean absently wonders when the party actually started.

The time of year mean that it gets dark quickly, and it’s breaking dusk now. Fairy lights shine in along the window frames, Dean can see now, as he pulls up and parks.

“He did not inform me of a party.” Cas scowls at the house like it personally offended him.

Sam bounds in first, for such a scrawny kid he manages to bust right through 3 people standing in the doorway. Cas and Dean take longer, removing the bags from the car and hesitantly follow suit.

Together they shoulder their way inside, Cas scanning the bustling crowd of dancing people. He turns to Dean and Dean shrugs. Cas starts walking up the massive spiral staircase ahead of them.

They have stopped at the second floor, partly because Cas had decided to do so and partly because winding up the rest of the stairs is various items of clothing.

“Your brother’s house is huge, _dude_!” Dean says astonished as they pass the 4 th elaborately decorated bedroom.

At the end of the hall they find a blissfully empty room, the bed big enough for 5 people, and dump their stuff onto the floor. Cas perches on the end of the bed, arms resting on his knees. Dean slumps down beside him, squeezing his thigh comfortingly.

Looking up, Cas scowls at the sound of a bed squeaking above them. Dean chuckles, because hey, at least someone is getting laid tonight.

“You-“ Cas starts to speak but is cut off.

“Oh! Yeah, hit me harder.” Comes a woman’s shrill cry and it makes Dean laugh harder. This is going to be an unconventional Christmas even for him.

“I do not understand, why does she want to be hit?” Cas is still frowning, “Has she been bad?”

Dean has to double take to make sure Cas is being serious.

“Some people are into spanking dude.” They fall into an awkward silence, the groans and music filtering in from the rest of the house. “ _They_ are definitely enjoying it.”

Cas turns to him very sternly, and Dean swallows the arousal that sneaks down his belly at being at the receiving end of such an concentrated look.

“Do you enjoy spanking, Dean?”

It is neither funny, nor is it helpful, that Cas deadpans something like that with complete lack of emotion. Dean can feel himself getting hard, and wills it to go away because he is not going to let his first time with Cas be in his brother’s bed.

“Dammit Cas...” Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue.

A scarcely there smile pulls at the corner of Cas’ lips. He _knows_ what his voice does to Dean God damn it.

“We should go down to the party.” Cas says, casual as fuck, walking towards the door.

Pfft, not with a boner, Dean thinks solemnly.

“Yeah, I’ll uh... be down in a minute.”

Cas just smirks.

The quickest way to remove arousal from his system is easy, super easy, because it is a disgusting idea that he never wants to imagine – if it weren’t for its effectiveness at removing Cas related boners, Dean would bleach his brain of the thought.

_Bobby doing a naked car wash._

Dean shudders. It is a horrifying image.

He chases after Cas, successfully put off, and smacks him on the ass.

“You bastard.” He hisses into his ear as they descend the stairs together.

 

Dean doesn’t meet Gabriel until the party finishes at 10pm that night. He had thought that was early, but according to some of the sobered up dancers, the party started at 9 yesterday. More than 24 hours of loud music, alcohol and the place reeks of sex; Dean can’t believe what it must be like to be this guy’s neighbour.

“Cassie! Samm-ay! My favourite bros, how’ve you been?” Gabriel doesn’t appear to be drunk, overly happy maybe and hyped up something, but not alcohol. His gaze pinpoints on Dean. “And you must be Deano, do I need to have the talk with you? No? Awesome, just know that if you hurt my little Cassie,” He pinches Cas’ cheek, his speech working so fast Dean can’t even find the time to answer or ask how he knew, “Your body will never be found.”

Sinister grin, that’s what Dean is officially naming the way Gabe’s looking at him. He nods, not appreciating the sentiment however. If he ever hurts Cas, he’ll already be dead before Gabe can do anything to his body.

That’s Gabe’s input for the night, and he whirls away with a platter of candy in one hand and a girl probably called ‘Candy’ in the other. It’s around 12 when he, Cas and Sam head up too. Sam’s so tired he mumbles something along the lines of ‘Merry Christmas Eve’ as he stumbles into the room he’d picked.

Dean was going to offer him his bag, but he gets the feeling Sam is crashing on the bed in what he’s wearing.

Cas strips down to his boxers and nothing else, which Dean is very tempted to punch him for, and crawls under the covers. He makes a happy and contented sound, the tuft of brown peaking above the white duvet. Dean seriously considers jumping on him, but is cut off for the third time by a yawn, so takes off his trousers and removes his over shirt, his chest comfortably hidden. He isn’t ready for Cas to see that much of him.

Slowly, he pulls back the sheets on his side of the bed to reveal Cas’ closed eyes, his hand held out in the grabbing motion. Dean rolls his eyes, lying down and lets himself be pulled in by Cas. To say that Cas resembles a cat would be an accurate description. From somewhere in the house, he can still hear music playing. He smiles, drifting to sleep in warm arms.

Heat. Fire. Smoke.

_Cas-_

No, he can’t lose Cas to the flames. He thrashes against the binds holding him down, watching helplessly as Cas is engulfed in angry red and orange.

“ _Dean._ ”

His eyes fly open, heart painfully banging against his ribs; he’s surprised it hasn’t broken through his bones.

Blue eyes hover over him and he reaches up, to trace Cas’ face with his fingers. Cas lets him, concern laced in worried lines on his forehead.

“What were you dreaming about?”

Dean doesn’t trust his voice. His heart is still thumping away and that’s all he can _feel_. He wants it to stop. Stop the drumming! Stop-

Cas kisses him, tenderly, calmly, sucking Dean out of a panic attack. He needs his pills. But how can he take them with Cas there?

“Drink.” Dean says weakly and Cas rushes out of the room to comply.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he hurries to his bag, with one hand on his heart. God he can feel it, the weakness regardless of the rate at which it’s beating. His hand shakes as he rattles out two pills. He chucks them down, dry, trying to calm his breathing.

He realises he needs Cas.

Like, really needs him. Right now, he needs to have his arms around him again.

He wobbles out of their room, tripping over his own feet in his haste. The temperature is colder, the wooden floorboards creaking under his step. The house is quiet, except for the gush of running water downstairs. He takes the stairs slowly, methodically, a child learning to walk; he meets Cas half way down.

He gestures for them to go back to the kitchen, also the source of the music, and they sit down at the oversized breakfast bar.

The kitchen, like everywhere else he supposes, is huge. There are counters lining half the walls in the room, covered in empty bottles and food trays. They take two bar stools, Dean accepting the glass of water unsteadily from Cas’ strong hand.

“Dean,” God why does he have to sound so pained when he says his name, “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

He gulps down the water, focussing on the deep rumble of Cas’ voice in contrast to the icy liquid.

“Nightmare,” He croaks.

Cas is still staring at him. Oh – Dean mentally sighs – he expects him to continue.

“You were...” Dean thinks about telling the truth and then he hears the start of a familiar tune.

Heart successfully back to a normal rate, he grins at Cas. He’s expectant, of an explanation, and noticeably flustered when Dean grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet.

“It was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank,” He sings along, well aware of how bad his voice sounds as he wraps his arms around Cas’ waist and begins to sway.

“Dean what are you-“

“I turned my face away and dreamed about you,” He sings right over Cas, his hands splayed against the his warm skin.

Uncertainly, Cas envelops Dean with his own arms, swaying jittery with the music. The beat of the song picks up, however, they don’t change their pace. Here they are, slow dancing to ‘Fairytale of New York’ in their pyjamas in Gabriel’s kitchen at, he checks the clock on the wall, 3am with his head resting on Cas’ shoulder and with Cas’ head on his own. He breathes in, relishing the touch of Cas against his palms.

He moves his head, so that his lips brush against the shell of Cas’ ear.

“Can't make it all alone, I've built my dreams around you.”

The rest of the song patters off, but Cas’ arms close around him a little tighter as he sings it.


	8. You and Me and I-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is such a dork. 
> 
> Sam needs to stop showing Cas cheesy romcoms.
> 
> Dean's got more than a scheming little brother to deal with.......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not that great at smut... Be gentle with me (heh hheheheheh)

The New Year celebrations come and they go. The novelty of ‘that was so last year!’ thankfully dies out and all Dean was left with was the anticipation for his 18th.

Sam’s completely enamoured with his new laptop (which he totally bitched they didn’t have money for before grousing a ‘thanks Dean’). It’s hard to keep the kid away from it these days; even Cas has joined in teasing Sam when he meets his friends in the library to do whatever it is those nerds do. And Dean has totally caught Sam skyping Jess and makes sure to embarrass him as thoroughly as possible.

The dull ache in his chest remains, and he reminds himself to tell the doctor that is making a weird stabby pain sometimes too. He doesn’t dwell on it though. He has an awesome little brother, a gorgeous boyfriend and great friends. Life was good. Dad made it back for his birthday, presentless but it’s the thought that counts.

Sammy gives him a charm, to go with his amulet, something he admits he would have given him for Christmas however Missouri hadn’t sent it over from the shop yet. He also hands him a mismatch of car oils and tools, the kid's not as well versed in engines but it's the though that counts. Missouri’s a great woman, who makes hella awesome pie and owns a trinket shop that Bobby used to take them to as kids.

Having drawn it over his head, Dean hasn’t taken it off since.

He was absolutely convinced – Dad had to leave again after a few hours, Sammy had gone to bed – that his birthday night would be the night he would give everything to Castiel. That’s it for him, he’s his Mary. He’s terrified, of that thought, and just how much Cas has come to mean to him downright stops him in his tracks some days.

At any rate, his birthday night didn’t go as planned. They stayed up, watched bad movies, ate pie and celebrated; Sammy trundled off to bed, Charlie walked Sam across the road before going home herself, leaving the two of them alone. His heart was nearly doing its own palpitations against the rhythm when Cas had turned to him, his beautiful smile reaching his eyes. He had leaned in, kissed Dean in the most chaste way on the lips, no tongue, and stood up. Dean rushed to follow him, arms reaching out to pursue more.

Cas had stopped him. Literally booped him on the nose in a weirdly intimate kiss, and left.

He was confused, at first, conflicted, and then accepted maybe Cas wasn’t interested in sex. Which sucked, majorly, because the guy had the body of a God and lips that Dean’s 90% sure could make him come alone... However, Dean would never force himself on anyone. If Cas is content to remain as they are, Dean will resign himself to Cas’ boundaries.

And jerk off furiously when he’s alone.

 

It’s a week after his birthday and Sam’s started to act weird. He keeps asking to make sure that it is alright for him to sleep round Jess’ that weekend, Dean had said yes, and it’s getting to the point where Dean might just send him round now. As Friday draws closer, Sam gets more, how should he say, antsy.

He’s finally on the way to dropping him off and he can’t help but think he’s missed something here. Sam’s facial expression range is vast and wide, with the majority categorised as intensity of bitchface, and this one does nothing more than make him nervous. He looks like he knows, simply, although Dean hasn’t got a clue _what_ he knows.

“Have fun Dean!” Sam shouts, bounding out of the car.

He’s still confused.

“Be safe, bitch!” He calls back, because the last thing he wants is to let Sam think he’s got him flustered over something he doesn’t even know about and that, quite realistically, might not exist. It’s like psychological torture and Dean’s thinking about it with increasing velocity; he’s seriously considering turning back and asking Sam what the fuck is going on.

Only, when he pulls into the drive, there’s Cas standing there waiting.

He’s donned his suit, the trenchcoat, the top button’s done up and the tie is facing the right way round. Suspicious, Dean puts baby in park and kills the engine. Cas looks nervous, but somehow at the same time ridiculously impassively confident, as he strides to Dean’s window.

Dean gets out and Cas presses him into the frame of the Impala, reminiscent of their first kiss. He pecks Cas on the lips, because he can, and because he doesn’t know how else to react. Reaching round, Cas pulls a slightly squashed red rose from the back of his pants – who knew Cas was a cheesy romantic – and scowls at it like his gaze can rejuvenate it.

“Cas... Not for nothing, but, uh, what?”

Intelligently stringing words together to form coherent sentences is not his strong point, especially when Cas shifts and decides to press his knee _there_.

He shakes himself from silently cursing the flower and smiles, threading the stem (thankfully removed of thorns) behind Dean’s ear.

“We’re going on a date.”

 

Let it be said that more dangerous words have not been spoken.

Needless to say, Dean fucking loves going on dates with Cas and it is quickly becoming a high ranking thing on his ‘top things that make me incredibly happy list’.

First, they go for burgers at White Castle. They fucking binge. Cas insists on paying so they order almost one of everything from the menu; Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up from eating that much. For his size, Cas can eat a surprising amount, and he continues to eat, when Dean’s heart shudders at the increase of cholesterol.

I mean, he has to be careful. He just rarely gives a damn. If he’s going to die, he might as well go down enjoying himself.

Then Cas decides they should go to a drive in movie, Dean’s going to stop leaving Sam alone with Cas so that he can supervise his movie suggestions. Apparently, that’s how dates are done in the movies, Dean. He snorts in return, if only Cas knew exactly what kind of angsty chick flick they were actually living.

In true form, the film watching completely diverts to making out and Dean’s hopeful, he really is, that maybe Cas will drag him into the back seat of the Impala and draw a little bottle of lube from his coat pocket. He doesn’t, though, and when they turn back to the screen, the credits are rolling.

They drive around for a while, the late hours of the night peaceful and god damn _romantic_ with the two of them, the heater and speakers softly playing Metallica. He thought he only wanted to have the physical thing with Cas, a corporeal and tangible memory to hold on to, now though, now he never wants this night to end. He wants to drive for endless hours with Cas by his side and eat crappy food and make out instead of watching scary movies. He wants the feeling in his chest, the one that balms and sooths the fire in his heart, to stay forever.

Cas is quiet, as usual, as Dean pulls into the drive. He cuts the engine and they purely sit, when their hands entwined he doesn’t know, but they are, and he takes a deep breath.

“Cas I-“

“Dean I-“

They both chuckle, a hit of nervous tension building up between them, a rubber band ready to snap. He tugs a little at their joined hands and smiles crookedly.

“Come inside?”

The lights inside are off and it’s dark, the quiet anticipation filling them up as they walk up the stairs to Dean’s room.

Dean’s pretty fucking excited. Like, his dick took an interest about 3 hours ago and he’s been willing it away until Cas was ready.

He’s ripped from his thoughts by Cas pulling him into his room and closing the door. It’s only now he realises how riled up Cas is, his eyes dark and his hair wild. Through the window, the moon and stars shine a small amount of light into the room; it’s an oddly romantic end to their evening... Fitting, if you will.

He grabs a fistful of Cas’ trenchcoat, yanking him forward so that he can kiss him again. Cas goes with it, his nimble fingers sliding up under the hem of his shirt. Swallowing, Dean presses into the kiss harder, forceful like he might not be able to do it anymore, and leans back.

So he hadn’t thought out the whole scar on his chest thing yet. Worst of all, he doesn’t want to scare Cas away.

Not knowing what to say, or how to answer the confused head tilt and those kiss puffed lips, he sighs and pushes Cas onto the bed. Again going with it, Cas lets Dean curl up next to him in relative silence, snuggling into him as they’ve lain on top of the covers and it’s cold. After a few minutes of putting it off, Dean feels Cas rumble his name, his fingers carding through his short hair.

“Dean?”

He ‘mhmm’s’ as nonchalant as he can manage.

“Is everything alright?”

Dean bites his lip. If he gets it over with, Cas can leave and he can crawl into bed and stuff his face into the pillow that now no doubt has faint traces of Cas-smell.

“There’s this scar on my uh... well... chest and it’s just that I-“

“Can I see?” Cas’ hand has wound round him and is pressed into the place over his heart before he can even stammer out the rest of his explanation. He feels the pace of his heart kick it up a notch.

He decides that actions speak louder than words, peeling away from Cas’ warmth to sit up and straddle his lap. Cas’ eyes are dark, his face barely lit in the room. He can see it though, when he looks down, in pictures their friends take of them together, the pure devotion that he knows he doesn’t deserve. Taking a deep breath, he reaches the hem of his shirt and tugs it over his head.

He follows the direction of his shirt as he chucks it, so that he doesn’t have to look at the expression of not doubt disgust on Cas’ face. What he doesn’t expect is a warm hand to curl round his chin and to feel him sit up, for Cas to lay his free palm over the scar, lighting him up like the sparks to a fire. The feeling of lips along his jaw is gentle and yet oddly insistent, working around until Dean has no choice but to meet Cas’ eyes.

“How?”

Cas breathes the question into his skin, making Dean shudder. It’s cold in his room, and Cas is burning him up similarly to the furnace in his heart whenever he’s around. He turns his head into Cas’ so that their temples bump together, his fingers tangling in the short hairs at the back of Cas’ neck.

“I’ll tell you later.”

He feels Cas tilt his head and he chuckles, tension draining out of him. Kissing him once on the temple, Dean leans away.

“First, you’re going to fuck me.”

They strip quickly; well, Dean was going to tease but Cas had manhandled them both – which is really fucking hot – out of their clothes, and he actually growled when the tie got caught round his neck.

Cas is propped up on the bed by his elbows and they meet an impasse of awkwardness. Dean’s kind of glad though, the first time should be awkward right, their lives are sappy enough without the perfect love scene happening. Wait, love scene?

“So, uh do you wanna or...” He gestures to his butt, leaning sideways to grab the bottle of lube from beneath his bed.

“I’ll do it.” Cas says with the conviction and seriousness of a doctor giving a diagnosis, his hand steadying him on his hip.

The initial coolness of the first finger makes him wince, even though he has done this to himself many times before. A tiny thrill zaps through him at the thought of Cas, his Cas, with his fingers and soon his dick inside him. He then realises, that he has always been the top. In every other sexual situation, he’s never had anyone else’s _anything_ inside him. Cas is scissoring carefully, the second finger stretching him out with less resistance than the first.

He’s yet to find the spot yet, the one that has Dean arching and crying out. The tip of his finger brushes his prostate, and Dean gasps, rocking back onto Cas’ fingers. Apparently Cas’ patience is wearing thin, and the third finger soon follows. His other hand drops from Dean’s skin, searching for where Dean had thrown the condom onto the bed. He finds it and hands it to Dean to open, crooking his fingers to hit his prostate again that almost has him falling from Cas’ lap.

Removing his fingers, Dean makes a broken sound as he eagerly slicks Cas up. They stop then, staring at each other with heavy breaths; Dean’s hand is still on Cas’ dick, Cas’ hand is resting in the nook of his hip. He goes to turn Dean around, because that’s the most comfortable position, but Dean stops him.

He licks his lips, bending to brush his lips against Cas’. Whereas he was almost always clean shaven, Cas has the most stubborn 5 o’clock shadow, not that he minds because the friction between them is a glorious thing.

“I want to face you.”

Cas swallows, nodding once to reposition Dean. They share another look, agreeing on something, or nothing, Dean’s not entirely sure and he doesn’t get to finish the thought as Cas guides him down.

“Cas.” The air is knocked out of him, Cas is bigger than he looks alright and it feels so good to be _full_.

Grunting in answer, Dean shifts so that his arms are braced on Cas’ chest. The change of angle gets a reaction as Cas chokes out an intelligible sound.

“Dean!” Cas shouts when he moves up without telling him, he got used to the feeling of Cas inside him surprisingly quick.

He sets a slow pace, half because he wants to draw this out and half because sex is still counted as ‘physical exertion’ and he doesn’t want to go into an angina attack. Even if death by sex sounds like a good way to go.

Dean leans forward over Cas so they can kiss as he pulls himself up and down on him; each rocking motion drawing a shaky moan out of them both. Wrapping his arms around Dean’s back, Cas keeps him secure and holds their bodies as close as they can get. They get into a rhythm, it’s slow and quiet, punctured only by the slap of skin and trembling groans. Dean buries his face into the side of Cas’ neck, mouthing hot, sloppy kisses against his skin.

His dick is trapped between them, hard and dripping precum. Cas rolls his hips to meet Dean’s movements, the pace allowing him to bottom out on every thrust and hit Dean’s prostate almost every time.

“Cas, Cas I-“ Dean stops himself, one hand still holding himself in some resemblance of sturdy, the other dropping down the jack himself between his and Cas’ toned stomachs. The first touch of his hand makes him curse and clench around Cas, which gets a muffled curse in return.

“Dean... So perfect... I lo-“

Dean swiftly cuts him off with a kiss, grinding down hard to swallow the words Cas was going to say. Cas’ hands fly up, seeming to always fixate on his chest, his fingers blearily stroking at his scar as he comes. The sensation sends Dean over as well, and he breaks away from Cas’ mouth to pant harsh breaths into the sweaty skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He manages to ride Cas, barely, through both their orgasms and collapses completely, turning limp in Cas’ arms.

He doesn’t remember much after that, only Cas moving him and the feeling of emptiness. Then there’s cotton wiping the cool liquid from his stomach and warm arms easing him under the covers. The same arms coil around him, dragging him close.

He tries to pretend he doesn’t hear the words Cas kisses into the top of his head, puffing out a breath and snuggling closer instead.

_I love you, Dean._


	9. Bad Puns Get You Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning after
> 
> Domestic Cas, sleepy Dean
> 
> Blow/hand jobs happen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is pretty short, but i wanted to get something up (seriously, can i stop with the unintentional bad puns now?) so yeah hopefully another chapter will be up tomorrow

Castiel wakes with a warmth cocooning him and soft snores breathing gently into his skin. He chuckles as Dean’s face scrunches up when he tries to move, his hands clasping a little tighter into his side.

Thinking of those hands brings him back to last night. If he’s honest, at the moment Dean had stopped he thought Dean was going to tell him to leave. To say that he didn’t want this – want Castiel. It had been terrifying. He absolutely hadn’t expected Dean to be self conscious, to the point where, once he had divested himself of his shirt, he thought that something so insignificant would change Castiel’s view on him.

It scared Castiel. He looks down at Dean in his arms, shifting his arm out of Dean’s grip and placing it over his heart. He’s been working with Michael long enough to know what a heart should sound like, the solid thump a reassurance beneath his boyfriend’s chest. The pads of his fingers dance along the line of the scar, thick and white and _big_. It spans at least 3 inches and rests right over his heart.

It still scares Castiel.

Although Dean would not tell him, resulting in a night of great sex that he will intend to recreate and copulate with Dean on many more occasions, how or when he got it, it is something he sees more clearly as fear in Dean’s eyes. Guilt too maybe, and sadness, that was kissed away and swallowed beneath the gasps and moans of each other’s name.

His fingers ghost down, along Dean’s side, feeling him shiver and goose bumps prickle in the chilly room where the blankets have fallen away. As much as he doesn’t want to move, he needs to urinate. That biological urge is going to pull him away from warm, freckled skin, the original nuisance that had woken him in the first place.

Carefully extracting himself from Dean, much to the huff of Dean’s annoyance, he leaves Dean’s room; navigating the line of strewn clothes and picks up a pair of boxers (he may take pleasure in the fact they are Dean’s) putting them on as he walks down the hall to the bathroom. Satisfied, he washes his hands and looks at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is wild from where Dean’s fingers had run through them, his lips redder than normal where Dean had bitten and kissed. Gripping the sink basin tightly, he rolls his neck. He could definitely go for another round. He wants to bite, lick and map every inch of Dean’s body until he knows it better than a bible verse. He wants to scream Dean’s name, a prayer, an assertion of faith, as he buries himself into his body.

He takes a deep breath. Later, soon, right now he’s going to make breakfast.

Most of the time, Cas lives off fast food. It’s easier, quicker and he isn’t exactly adept in the kitchen. You have the utensils, the bowls and plates, but other than that he might as well try teaching poetry to fish.

He stares at the pans, alternating between shuffling through the fridge and trying to work out what is within his skill set to prepare successfully.

“Cas?” A mumbling voice hobbles into the kitchen and Cas realises that he’s been staring at the pans, willing them to cook something themselves.

He turns to Dean, who’s rubbing his eye sleepily and is pulling the loose side of his trackies up on his hip. Shame really.

“I was hungry; I intended to make us something.” He answers, eyes sweeping Dean’s body.

Having yawned three times in the space of Cas’ sentence, Dean suddenly smirks.

“Not as hungry as I am for your cock, Cas.”

Cas frowns, watching Dean advance eagerly on him like a cat slinking across the kitchen.

“I do not think you ingesting my cock will be particularly pleas-“ He is cut off by soft lips, the hard line of Dean’s erection pressing into his hip.

Dean pulls back, licking his lips and drops to his knees before Cas can say anything.

“I woke up hard without you Cas...” He stops, blinking at Cas’ crotch, “Are these my boxers?”

Cas shakes his head minutely, hands bracing himself on the counter behind him as Dean backs him into it. The next kiss is heated, Dean’s groan swallowed by Cas’ mouth, their tongues lazily sliding against one another. He gasps when Dean’s palm slides beneath the waistband, palming at his hardening dick.

“Was gunna give you a blow job in bed,” Dean pants, his rocking shamelessly against Cas’ leg, “But I guess here will have to do.”

He falls down to his knees and pulls the underwear off Cas’ legs. Cas stands above him, legs buckling at the first swipe of Dean’s tongue against his hot skin. There’s stubble on Dean’s cheeks now, the barely there scratch and roughness on his inner thighs. The sensations together have him groaning in no time, once Dean stops teasing him by flicking the tip of his tongue against the slit and stroking him fast with his spit slicked palm.

Dean takes him down in one go, something he was not remotely prepared for, and he begins to bob and suck mercilessly. Cas looks down at him, watching Dean pump and suck, his cheeks hollowing out and he’s so close! Pulling Dean to his feet - Dean makes another one of his adorable disappointed sounds - he shoves Dean’s trousers down and jacks them together.

“Cas,” Dean mewls, the friction of his hand and Dean’s pre-come slicked dick against his own is perfect.

“God Dean I-“

His hand is joined by Dean’s and between the two of them they create a tight fist, squeezing and twisting at the right moments, until they’re kissing sloppily, their dicks together in their hands. The hard line of the counter pressing into Cas’ back but he can hardly feel it; all he can feel is Dean.

He has also noticed, however, Dean’s tendency to effectively cut him off with a kiss whenever he tries to say ‘I love you’. It makes him wonder what Dean’s afraid of. Cas means it, too, more than he’s ever meant anything in his whole entire life. Especially now, Dean’ heavy lidded green eyes, staring into his own as he comes, Cas’ names falling obscenely from his lips, in a moment of pure bliss. The look on Dean’s face is enough to send him over, their combined come dribbling down each other’s stomachs and legs.

Dean’s breaths are warm on his skin, the smile he can feel making the happiness coil in his heart. He pecks him once, on the lips, on his nose, on each temple before Dean catches his face and does the same. They pull away laughing, shaking their heads. It’s cold down stairs, as cold as in Dean’s room, so Dean exhales and leans onto Cas’ bare chest. He can definitely get used to this.

“So...” Murmuring into his skin, Dean sighs; wraps his arms around Cas’ back, “Pancakes good with you?”


	10. He Will Do One Of Two Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy's not a kid. Ok, so may actually be defined by his age as a 'kid' but he is definitely more mature than that! Dean!
> 
> Gabriel knows something, doesn't he. 
> 
> He will do one of two things  
> He will admit to everything  
> Or he'll say he's just not the same - The Fray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are gunna hate me. Update should be Friday 20th

Sam notices. He always does. Dean likes to think he is good at hiding it, Sam can see through his bullshit though. He’s been looking up to his brother for as long as he can remember and he sure as hell isn’t going to miss when Dean’s health starts to decline.

All the god damn ‘classics’ play through the tape, but Dean doesn’t sing along anymore. He takes the stairs slower, he even eats less. Sam is just about going out of his mind because even if Dean was knocking on death’s door, he wouldn’t tell him; Sam has had to find ways of finding stuff out. An intense investigation, consisting of after school stake outs and rummaging through his brother’s bin whilst he’s at work, is how he found out Dean has asked for his prescription dosage to be upped and is, unsuccessfully, hiding the tissue every time he coughs – he brings up blood.

His eyes are tired, his smile strained. Yet, he still insists on going to work and taking Sam to school. Sam’s had enough. Dean’s going to let himself die.

Dean’s going to die.

His big brother; his hero. The 9 year old boy who walked him in on his first day of school, when he was going to a new school himself, looked him in the eyes and said ‘you’ll be fine Sammy, and if anyone says anything, I’ll kick their ass’. There has only been one true constant in Sam’s life and that has been Dean. When Dad’s had to work, or was dragging them across the country, Dean was by his side. He was in the back of the Impala, playing games with his toys. He was sitting on the motel bed, reading the book he brought home from school.

He was lying in the middle of the school hall, his heart had stopped beating.

Holding back a sob, Sam heaves the backpack further up his back. He’s meeting with Jess today after school, mainly because he needs to talk to someone about it. Dean has Cas now, which is great, but Dean can’t bring himself to tell anyone about his heart. That’s the main problem with Dean, and is one of the ways in which he is different from his brother. If Sam’s angry, confused, struggling, he’ll go and talk to someone about it. He’ll let it out by going for a run with Bones and let the anger and emotion boil out of him in his sweat.

Not Dean though. Sam doesn’t know if it is pride, fear or god knows what, that made Dean keep his heart condition a secret from everyone. In times of trouble, Dean closes off like a clam. Sam’s face scrunches up, ok so a clam is a bad analogy. Dean’s emotional capacity is more like a parking meter. You have to put something in to get something out. Sam will have to go through hours of silence, just to hear that Dean’s in love with Cas. He’ll have to indulge in burgers and the other fast food crap that Dean eats to hear how he’s really feeling. Sometimes, it involves prying a bottle away from Dean's hand, sometimes it means letting Dean drink so he's more suggestible and will talk.

Dad’s just as bad. He’s pretty sure Dean gets it from Dad.

It doesn’t take long to get to the library. Quietly, he pulls out a chair at their deemed table and takes a seat. He plays with his phone in his hands, waiting for Jess to turn up.

“Hey Sam!” She bounds over, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind.

Sam smiles, raising his hands to squeeze her back from where he’s sitting. Jess is beautiful. She’s badass, feisty and the prettiest girl in any of his classes. Her long blond hair looks like the pictures of Mom and Dean honest to god choked when he had seen her.

“Hey Jess.” He mumbles bashfully, only she can make butterflies flutter in his stomach.

“You alright?” The tone of her voice has softened, in a way that makes her sound 5 years old. A child, checking on her friend in the simplest form of kindness. Plopping down next to him, she takes one of his hands from playing with his phone and plays with his fingers. “Come on Sammy, what’s up?”

He chuckles at being called ‘Sammy’ and he’d normally remind her that it’s ‘just Sam’. Problem is, he’s nervous, his mind is frayed and he’s scared.

“I think... I think something bad is going to happen to my brother.” Ok, so Sam hasn’t been completely honest with Jess. There’s no way he’d go and blurt Dean’s secret to anyone anyway, he knows that Dean  _needs_  to be viewed as the strong, cocky big brother. Sam doesn’t know why, Dean’s a total nerd once you know him.

“Talk to me Sam.” Her small hand clutches his palm tighter.

“He hasn’t been well for a while now, sometimes the only version I remember is the illness. And I’m really not ok, Jess. I’m scared I’m going to lose him. What if I lose him?”

He feels a tear track down his cheek and warm arms close around him. God, he is such a baby. Dean’s dying and he’s the one crying, the irony really. He has to be strong for Dean, get good grades and get out of the life. That’s what Dean always wanted. It’s what he wants too, but he doesn’t want to have to do it without his brother.

Jess waits, holding him tightly until he stops shaking. He smiles at her gratefully and she grins lopsidedly.

“Go home to your brother Sam, talk to him.”

She also gives good advice. He should talk to Dean. They both have stuff they need to get off their chest and Sam isn’t a baby anymore. He’s 14 damn years old. He can take care of himself, he can handle the truth.

“Thanks Jess, I will.”

Hugging her once more, he pulls away and drags his backpack over his shoulder.

“Text me.” She says into his ear as she leans away.

“I will.”

 

Sam gets home to a dark house. The Impala’s in the drive though; Dean should still be on his shift. Something must be wrong, something must have happened!

“Dean?!” He calls out to the darkness.

“M’here Sammy,” Dean’s voice returns from the living room.

Striding purposefully down the hall, he walks in to see Dean, splayed across the sofa with Bones curled along beside him. He didn’t even know the sofa could fit the two of them on there.

“You ok Dean? Shouldn’t you be at work?” Sam asks hesitantly, standing across from his brother.

“Tired,” He mumbles in return.

Sam doesn’t miss the way Dean’s hand rubs over his heart, the sound of his uneven breaths punctuating the silence between them. Frustrated, Sam thinks back to what Jess told him to do – talk to him.

“Dean...” Cautiously he starts, waiting for a response. Dean grunts, sitting up on the couch. “You’d tell me if it was bad, wouldn’t you?”

Dean stops rubbing his eye and stares at him. “’Course Sammy, what makes you think I wouldn’t?”

He knows he’s bitchfacing but Sam can’t help it.

“You and Cas have been going out for like since he moved here,” Dean snorts, looking like he’s going to dispute that and instead finds himself nodding, “And you still haven’t told  _him_   _about_ your heart condition. Plus, I know you, you think it’s better to deal with it alone.”

“Alright Sammy, first off: me and Cas have been going out for 3 months. So screw you. And of course I haven’t told him! Sam how many years have we been doing this? You agreed  _yourself_  when we moved here that I shouldn’t tell anyone. I can’t put that on Cas now, things are just starting to get good.”

Dean has one of those faces that Sam wishes he could bleach from his memory.

“Ew Dean, gross.” He gags at the mental image of his brother and Cas-

Nope. No, no thank you.

“Please Dean, I’m worried. About you. If you won’t talk to me will you at least talk to Cas?” Because Sam can bully it out of Cas... Somehow.

Huffing, Dean rises from the sofa, startling Bones and stomps upstairs.

“Mature Dean!” Sam shouts. Seriously, there are times when he’s not so sure Dean is the older brother.

“Whatever bitch.”

Sam collapses into the spot where Dean was sitting. Bones wags his tail and rests his head on Sam’s knee. Absently, Sam strokes his head, his head lolling onto the back of the sofa.

“I know buddy, Dean’s an idiot.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Gabriel if you are not going to assist in anyway, will you please get off the counter.” Cas grits his teeth, glaring at his older brother who is currently right where he needs to be, swinging his legs like a child with a lollipop in his mouth.

“Since when did you bake, Cassie?” He says, sliding down petulantly.

His mother went out and Gabriel chose to ‘drop in’. Samandriel was pleased, to say the least, and now he has two prying eyes making fun of him. The assimilation of pie is hard enough without the additional stress of his brothers.

“It’s for Deeeean.” Sam coos, covering his mouth with his hand to stifle his laughter when he looks at Gabe’s gagging face.

“Don’t encourage him, Sam.” Cas scowls at Sam too, shooing him with the spoon covered in egg to the other side of the kitchen. This is a disaster.

“You’re really hung up on that Winchester kid, huh Cassie.” Gabe’s tone has softened, slightly, the teasing replaced with realisation. Castiel doesn’t like it one bit. Rather, he doesn’t  _trust_  the indication in Gabriel’s voice.

Continuing to make the pastry, he ignores both his siblings. The window in the kitchen looks out to the front garden and across the street to Dean’s.

His phone buzzes, he wipes his hands on a cloth and draws it from his pocket.

            | _I luv u_

It’s from Dean.

“That’s strange.”

“What is?” Cas doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud, that is until Gabriel is hovering over his shoulder. He’s never seen Dean text like that, maybe he’s drunk. Why would he be drunk though? Cas sighs, he can’t go over there and find out, Dean hadn’t asked him to come over. He types back a quick  _‘And I you’_  before returning his phone to his pocket.

Come to think of it, Dean hasn’t invited him over for a few days. At first he had thought it was because the SATs and finals were coming up; he knows that Dean doesn’t believe he will do well. He can see from here that the Impala is in the drive, which is odd considering Dean isn’t usually back from work ‘till half 5.

“Yo... Earth to Cas?” Gabe’s finger pokes him in his side and he stops kneading the pastry.

“What did you say?” Cas blinks, turning around to stir the syrup mix that had been cooling.

“I said I talked to Mikey about Winchester and-”

Somewhere in the distance, he can hear a siren screeching. It cuts Gabe off and the three Novak’s glance out of the window to see an ambulance rushing up the road.

It pulls to a stop outside one of the houses.

The spoon drops on the floor. It clatters. It’s barely heard as Cas dashes out of the front door. He stops, watching in horror as a man is transported out on a stretcher. There’s a boy holding his hand.

“DEAN?”


	11. Interlude: Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 points of view.
> 
> Someone new, someone old, someone different to who we know.......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL OF YOUR COMMENTS JUST SPURRED ME ON AND I'M SORRY IT'S A FILLER BUT HERE'S A CHAPTER I DIDN'T ANTICIPATE WRITING *DRAWS YOU ALL IN FOR A HUG* Let me love you, you're all so lovely ♥
> 
> yes-i-ship-it, Luci's for you and me babe ;D

The fire ravaged a family home. Almost completely, from top to bottom. Lucifer stood, before those flames licking from the inside out; glass shatters from the pressure, the heat blazes against his skin. They battle it for hours, while EMTs take the man and children to the hospital. He watches it drive away, hose in hand as he stands down the blaze. He would be grateful that the family made it out – all but one.

_State your name please._

Lucifer Nicholas Pelegrino

 _This is your official statement, start from the beginning_.

He rolls his eyes. Having been through this process before, police statements, debriefs, PTSD checks, he is all too familiar with that steely cold voice through the intercom.

I was part of a 3 man team called to a house fire at the Winchester family home in Lawrence. When I arrived on the scene, the house was already fully on fire, the second floor nearly destroyed. There was a young child, unconscious on the grass. We had to restrain the father from returning to the burning building in order to retrieve his wife, Mary – deceased.

Lucifer cracks his neck.

After 3 hours, we managed to control the inferno. Once inside, we checked the house for ignition points. It was concluded that it was arson; a burn pattern leading from the two son’s rooms. Motive unknown, not that that’s my speciality anyway. The oldest son, Dean Winchester, is currently in hospital suffering from suspected carbon monoxide poisoning. The youngest, Samuel, is also being checked out.

_Thank you for your time, Nick_

He laughs. It never ceases to amuse him how uncomfortable his name makes people. Scraping the chair back, he exits the white walled room.

 

* * *

 

John paces the hospital ward angrily. Distraught runs rife in his veins and if it weren’t for Dean’s condition he would probably have picked up something strong to drink by now. There are two images in his mind playing on repeat.

Mary’s shrill scream of ‘Dean, Sam!’ and the look on her face when the stairs fell through. He kicks the wall in frustration. The plastic panel rattles above and he looks up. The reflection in the material is hazy, foreign. Who is he without his wife? Why was he downstairs anyway?  _To drink_. He could have stopped it. It’s then he decides, if it kills him, that he will protect his boys and find the man responsible for taking her away from him.

She had hoisted the boys over the banister to his waiting arms. Even as he held Dean, and Dean held onto Sam, he could see the haze in his oldest son’s eyes. He was coughing and spluttering but wouldn’t let go of his baby brother. Mary was supposed to climb over after him when...

He had told Dean to run.  _Go Dean, now!_

His son had raced as fast as his choking brain would let him; he has never let him down. The stairs fell through, straight after. His Mary, sweet precious Mary, was trapped at the top. Tears prick at his eyes, soot and smoke clinging to his skin.

By the time the fire fighters had shown up and dragged him from his broken home, Dean was unconscious on the grass. His face was lit by the shadows of the flames, his chest barely inhaling. Sam curled over him, round him, his young face framed in black and streaks of tears dribbling down.

His boys, 8 and 4, have had their home, their lives, their Mom, burnt away, leaving nothing but a charcoaled carcass of what was before.

 

The extent of the damage the fire was still doing to their lives did not become overly apparent until 2 years later. He had gotten the call at work, a hysterical woman who sounded as though she had been crying for a while. His boys, having been cleared from the hospital, had been moving around with him, state to state. Find the killer. Find him John. It consumed him, as ironic as the fire that took her away. He taught the boys to fight, to be strong. He couldn’t afford to lose them too.

_It’s your son Dean, he’s collapsed and- and heart failure – hospital_

John had honestly zoned out after the word collapsed.

Dean had to be transported, thankfully they were only a state away, to Kansas General; where this had all began. A young doctor, Novik or something, took Sam to the children’s ward to check him over. He couldn’t lose both his sons that day.

Luckily, Sam had apparently not been exposed for as long, or as close, to the ignition point. John never trusted their word though, after this, he would make Sam go to Dean’s appointments, to monitor his heart and lungs.

Dean had heart surgery at 10 years old. 10. His boy was barely a man; sure he could hold a gun and rightfully so his own in a fight, but he didn’t deserve the burden of a broken heart. They had cut into his son's chest, inspected, probed, taken blood samples, sewed him up and said ‘hey, there’s not a lot we can do, he literally needs a new heart’. His son had not woken for 4 days after, they were afraid that he had slipped into a coma.

Dean cried when he woke, apologising for not being strong enough. When had his son gotten that idea? Did he make him think that?

Bobby Singer is a grump and an alcoholic, but he’s also a damn good man. He was there for John, for the boys, while he searched for extra employment to pay for all the pills and medical bills. He had to hope, had to, that they would find a donor.

The list is very long, Mr Winchester.

At the rate your son’s health is deteriorating...

 

* * *

 

“Who was that, Mikey?” Gabe sneaks a lolli from his brother’s pot – the one he reserves for particularly good children.

“Do you remember the ‘Yellow Eyes Arsonist’?” His brother replies, fondly shaking his head.

“Pfft, duh. Never caught him, why?” He perches in a chair, watching his big brother move around his new office with reverence and passion. (There will be a day, Gabriel, when you will not see the same softness glint in your brother’s eyes).

“The name Winchester ring a bell?”

He thinks for a moment. Winchester... “Oh, yeah sure. Wasn’t that the fire Luci always brought up?”

Michael chuckles. Him and Lucifer had been friends since high school, Lucifer had been the young budding fireman who came to inspire them at career fares.

“Yup, that was Sam Winchester. Younger brother.”

Gabe glares in the direction of the door. “Shame he’s too young for me, I’ll bet you he’ll be a fine piece of ass one day.”

Barking a laugh, Michael finishes writing out his notes on the boy. “You’re lucky I don’t report you Gabriel,” he sighs, “But you’re on brother.”


	12. Home Is Where The Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas finds out the truth. Well, most of it. The important stuff. Like how his boyfriend is dying. 
> 
> Sam feels terrible, he really does. The weight of Dean's condition hangs over him, and with his Dad on the other side of the country, he honestly feels ready to collapse. Thankfully, there are some Novak boys, new (old) acquaintances and he'll always have Bobby.
> 
> All he needs now is for Dean to be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all so lovely!! I love you all. I'm sorry for mistakes and I hope it's alright; I wanted to put it up before college. Oh yeah and Sam's memory is based off a tumblr post (: So here it is! Hit the comment box you wonderful people you c:

The walls are cream; sterile, cold. Dean’s skin is pale, his body an intricate web of tubing and machinery, sinking away under those crisp white sheets. Sitting on his left, opposite to Sam, Cas cradles Dean’s limp hand in his own. He sandwiches it between his palms, crouching over and for the first time since faith in a deity, in something higher, something more than what he is and can see, he prays for a miracle.

He presses his lips softly to the bony knuckles, the monotonous drone of beeping flooding his ears. He whispers into the skin – words in languages he’s memorised and that slide easily off his tongue – he breathes into Dean his devotion. His love. His hope.

Sam concerns him. Not his Sam, Dean’s Sam. In the chair on the other side of the bed, barely visible for all the tubes, Sam sits stark upright. Dean’s free hand is clasped in his own and though he can see that the touch is gentle, Sam’s other fist is clenched tight. A coil spring, winding in and out. His gaze is far away, unfocused, the soft glisten of tears still marring his whiskey eyes.

He wonders what Sam is thinking.

Maybe he’s thinking about their father. Castiel cannot fathom being on the opposite end of the map while his son is in hospital dying. Dean hasn’t opened his eyes. The doctor’s fear that the heart attack had triggered a coma induced state due to lack of oxygen. He had overheard, listened in on, the nurses talking too. They’re not optimistic that Dean will pull through...

He’s never been this close to loss before, this hopelessness to do anything about the outcome. To be perfectly honest, he’s lost. His gaze wanders back to Dean, his face sunken and shadows around his eyes dark. Why hadn’t he told him? Why hadn’t he-

Cas swallows.

He knows that anger is eating away at his resolve because the outlook is so utterly bleak. It’s only been a day. One day of knowing, one day of wondering. The heart monitor beeps reassuring only that Dean is continuing to fight.

He had suffered a heart attack.

His heart had stopped.

The same thump that he had rested his head against so many times had ceased. Gone. Caput. And yet the only thing that springs forefront to Castiel’s mind is that Dean had wanted him to know. Despite everything, the hurt and betrayal that Dean would keep this from him, his heart (and oh the quirk of fate of his thoughts) aches, physically, that one of Dean’s last acts had been to say the words. Words that Dean had been choking on, that had sped his weary heart in the midst of their climax, that he had whispered so gently into Cas’ hair when he thought he was asleep and unconsciousness wouldn’t take him under.

They’re waiting for a donor. How can Sam stand it? He can’t believe how long Sam has endured this, torture, and all so young. That fear, the clench in his chest and stutter in his lungs at the thought of Dean leaving him – Sam lived that, every day. Kept Dean’s secret safe and they waited 6 years for a new heart. It would drive him insane. It’s already driving him insane.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Cas leans his forehead back to their joined hands. Dean would hate this room; hate the smell of disinfectant and offensive white walls and the open backed gown he is wearing. The atmosphere is heavy, unchartered, words not significant enough to be passed between them. Sam had an odd glint of guilt in his young face when Cas had rushed to the hospital.

Or, more accurately, demanded Gabriel drive him there immediately. After he had ensured that Sam had somewhere safe to stay, of course.

He still did not know the whole story, just the bare bones. Dean needs a heart transplant. Heart disease, the lingering aftermath of the fire that took their Mom. The list is long, long enough that even if you made it to the top, the chances of having a surgeon qualified and skilled enough to perform such an intricate operation _and_ the heart being the right blood type are infinitesimal.

Sam’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t move, not for a good minute. Cas wouldn’t have noticed, over the thrum of machines and weak pulse he can feel from Dean’s wrist, only the vibration is consistent and Sam eventually blinks out of wherever he had gone.

Cas raises his head. Frowning at the caller ID, Sam glances between Dean, Cas and the phone. He clears his throat, maturity of a 20 year old man not a 14 year old boy. His eyes flicker over Dean, once more, checking, before he tentatively leans over and kisses his brother’s forehead.

He nods at Cas.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

His voice is thick, weighted, as he turns and closes the door quietly behind him.

He leaves Cas to the oppressive, unlikely to ever be comforting, sounds of machines whirring. Unable to help it, Cas leans over, kissing along Dean’s jaw, his cheeks, anywhere he can reach without being obstructed by the only thing keeping Dean alive. A hot tear dribbles from his eye and runs off landing in a small slash before continuing it’s decent down Dean’s cheek.

The tension is getting unbearable. Cas has always prided himself on being a patient man. This, this is different. The uncertainty clouding everything is exhausting and the fact that he knows nothing of Dean’s condition, his real condition, chips away at his resolve. He stands, having been seated for a long time, striding across the room from his boyfriend. The hot tears are welling up again, frustration boiling over.

“You selfish son of a bitch,” he chokes out, the lighting from where he’s standing elucidating Dean so that he looks nothing more than a corpse wired to some futuristic droid, “You think that I didn’t deserve to know? That I wouldn’t be there for you if I did?”

He bites down hard on his clenched fist. He’s facing the door, eyes screwed shut. Brokenly, he twists, looking over his shoulder at Dean and then turns to him fully.

“You think that I love you any less?”

The sounds on the heart monitor picks up, speed, urgency and Cas stops, hands fisted roughly in his hair.

“Dean,” He rushes to his side, voice trembling and cracked. Shakily, he presses his lips to Dean’s forehead, “You don’t get to tell me you love me and then die you... you ass _._ ”

He holds his breath, forcing himself to calm down. It’s not like Dean can hear him, Cas’ presence doesn’t make any difference.

A woman bustles in; he should recognise her, since he works here. He doesn’t pay her much attention, studiously holding Dean’s hand while she does her checks. It reminds him, as she smiles politely, that he needs to talk to Michael when Sam returns. Michael will know, or at least have access to, Dean’s files. He may have contacts, names, faces, identities to push for Dean to get a transplant.

That’s what everyone says though isn’t it?

You would anything, for the person that means the most to you in the world to be bumped to the top of that list. What makes them more deserving than Michelle Harper, 34, Oregon? You’ve never met this person; their name is completely foreign to you, the only thing you know is that they are above the name you care about in the line. You don’t dislike her, you can’t, so why is it in the moment of the purest desperation you are willing to throw away morals, what you live and die by, to save one life?

Something so insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Dean Winchester was just a boy who lived across the road. He was a face, friendly when the rest of the street was cold. He should never have made you question, made you doubt, the very fabrics and fibre of your being. How is it that one man can so profoundly change you?

The woman leaves – she writes in his notes and gives Castiel a sympathetic look. He wants to shove that expression back in her face and snarl at the insufficiency of it. Angrily, he wipes at his face with the back of his hand. His hand comes away wet.

It is then that he realises he’s been crying.

 

* * *

 

Sam held the phone in his hand, like lead in the base of his palm.

“Dad?”

“Sammy! Are you alright? How’s he doing?” His Dad’s voice rattles through the phone, the sound of trucks and cars exhaling and hooting in the background.

“I’m fine Dad,” Trekking through the whitewashed walls he sweeps past the bustling nurses and anxious family members, out of the ward and into the fresh spring air. It slams into him, a ton of bricks, as a fierce slap on his face. “Dean is... he’s... The doctors are saying there’s nothing they can do, but uh, we’ve been through this before right? What do they know that we don’t?”

He hears his Dad’s attempt to stifle his sadness. He and Dean are alike in that way, always pretending to be something they’re not, pretending they don’t feel something. Sam chuckles humourlessly. Dean always said that Sam and John were very similar, though Sam could never see it. 

“How long is it going to take you to be here for him?” Sam asks, blinking into the bright cold sunshine.

“Don’t use that tone with me boy, I’m moving as fast as I can.” John growls, and there it is Sam thinks. There’s the kick he’s missed from his Dad, the proof that he does in fact feel and is still alive.

“Right, sir. Well, um. I just wanted you to know that I’m gunna be with him, every step of the way. Whatever it takes to get him better. Just so you know.”

Another sad sigh greets him. The line remains silent for a few minutes.

“Bobby’s on his way.”

“I know.”

“Alright. Take care of yourself Sammy and your brother. I’ll see you soon.”

The dialling tone sounds. John has hung up.

“Right.” Sam grits out through clenched teeth. Slowly, he blows out the breath he’s holding and shoves his phone back into his pocket.

He drops to a crouch, and then lets his body fall and collapse against the hard concrete. He scrunches the phone between his slim fingers, leaning his head on it in silent prayer.

There is no way to accustom to the feeling of helplessness. That’s his big brother in there. That’s Dean; the dork who sings along out of tune to 70’s rock, the nerd who insists at every opportunity that he’s Batman. Who’s going to play with him and Charlie, on Mario Kart, go to the park and mess about on the swings until old ladies scowl at them in repulsion?

Sam closes his eyes and lets out another shaky breath. He’s angry but he feels like crying at the same time and the whole sensation is near crushing him from the inside.

 

It reminds him of the time, the time before Dean’s heart gave out.

Dad used to change states every few weeks – Sam would argue that his paranoia is both irritating and distressing for him, that he wants a home again. He and his Dad argued a lot more when they were younger, whereas Dean has maintained his eagerness to please. Sam suddenly swallows at the thought of Dad meeting Cas.

Anyway, they were in the back of the Impala stuck in one of the longest traffic jams of his life. Honest to God, they had moved an inch in the last half hour. There was a family in the car beside them; Dean had nudged him out of his sleeping state and pointed at them. The child in the back had been crying, that much was glaringly obvious, and was playing with a toy dinosaur while the mouths of the parents twisted and moulded around angry words.

“Hey Sammy, look a dinosaur.” He pointed at the girl’s hand.

“A dinosaur?!” Sam gasped, undoing his seatbelt (that, by the way, was far too big for him, but the baby seat was ‘temporarily out of order’) and crawling over Dean to press his face into the glass and get a better look. “A dinosaur!” He had exclaimed happily.

“Wadda you say we cheer her and her dinosaur up?”

John, at this point, had zoned into that state of mindless driving.

“Boys if I hear you say dinosaur one more time...”

All of the cars, drones shifting forward along the road in a trance, stuck in the limbo of convincing themselves that it would not be much longer.

“Dinosaur,” Sam had sniggered conclusively.

Tapping on the window, Dean attempted to draw the kid’s attention. She was frowning at her toy, making it waddle along the edge of the window. Sam starts to knock too, a little louder and her head rolls over, startled.

The Winchester boys grin.

They spend the next trawling minutes pulling faces at her, mushing at each other’s cheeks with poking fingers until all three children are a mess of giggles. The parent’s heads spin round, glowering sternly at the girl and then coming to the realisation that she is watching the two boys. Sam has his tongue sticking out and is attempting to mouth the word ‘dinosaur’, spraying spit onto the side of Dean’s cheek. Dean has Sam in the start of a noogie and they both freeze as the man rolls down his window.

John noticed the attention and, in a way that is typically Winchester, he smiles at his boys in the rear view. He then cranks up the volume to ELO – Don’t Bring Me Down. The boys laugh as they fall apart and Sam’s standing on the seat, singing along, Dean is dancing and fake playing the drums. They pull forward, leaving a couple of gobsmacked assholes and one significantly happier kid.

It was a good day.

 

Sam scowls again. They don’t have days like that anymore. He just wants his brother _alive_.

Initially, the phone call had been a good reason to give Cas some space with Dean. For him to find out the truth, about Dean, this way made guilt and shame wring in his gut. No one deserves to find out like this...

“Hey there kid, what you doing?”

Sam looks up to see a man, a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips staring down at him. He hadn’t realised he wasn’t alone when he came out here. How long had the man been there?

“Sittin’ on the curb, what’s it look like?” He mumbles, kicking a stone and stretching his legs. Dean would have laughed. Among his list of names to call him: Samsquatch, Sammy, Samantha and Samsy (sassy Sammy, yeah, Sam doesn’t get it either).

The man chuckles, taking a long drag of his fag and smiles off into the sun. Sam can’t help but feel awkward at the attention. He moves to stand, slipping the phone back into his pocket and brushes the crumbs of stone and dirt from his ass.

“Who you here for?” The man asks, not looking away from the car park and dipping sunshine spread across from them. The wind is still blowing and Sam can feel it more now. Tsking, the man relights his smoke.

“My brother, I should be getting back to him actually.”

Sam smiles politely, although it probably comes out as a grimace.

“You don’t remember me, I’m guessing. I know you though. Winchester family. Your hair’s a little floppier and your face is more... Mature. But that’s definitely you, Samuel.”

He blinks at the man, fists curling preparing for a fight. Or something. He’s not sure why this man is bringing this up to, or how he knows, him. It irks him at how nonchalant he seems.

“No, I don’t remember you.” He forces out, the growl in his voice making the man momentarily glance at him.

The man smirks wider.

“My name’s Lucifer,” He looks at Sam then, for a reaction of some sort that he obviously doesn’t receive, “I was trying to stop the fire that wrecked your home.”

Sam’s Adams apple bobs.

“I’m sorry about your brother.” He states.

Biting his lip, Sam turns more towards the main doors.

“Yeah, me too.”

“He’ll be ok, you know.” Lucifer puffs out the breath, crushing the used smoke under his boot.

“You’re lying,” He’s close to crying, he can feel it. He hates that people baby him, like not knowing the truth now will save him from the pain later.

Lucifer regards him wholly, his posture straight, head tilted. His face contorts with confusion and an expression that is almost disgust.

“Why would I do that?”

The first tear dribbles miserably out, Sam inhales sharply to hold the rest of them in. he can’t show that he’s weak, vulnerable, not now. Not when Dean needs him.

“B-because everyone thinks I’m just a dumb kid who can’t handle the truth.”

Somewhere behind him, a door bursts open. It cuts Lucifer off and at first the fire fighter looks pissed, but his smile soon evens out.

“Sammykins, my old buddy old pal,” His arms are open wide, his face notably more tired than his voice would suggest, “I see you’ve been hanging with dear Luci. How’s it going bub?”

Gabriel. He had met Cas’ older brother on Dean’s birthday. Well, Gabe introduced himself by bursting through their door, pie in hand, singing out of tune to Happy Birthday. Dean had looked equal parts terrified and happy. Later, Sam would find out why. He awoke with his hair braided – properly – and even Sam has to admit that as for execution of his pranks, Gabriel hits the mark every time. Sam’s learnt to like Gabe, a lot.

Lucifer grins. He and Gabe exchange a weird embrace, patting each other’s backs before pulling away. The smile on Gabe’s face looks a little less forced now, the worry lines from his forehead smoothed out to what Dean recognises him as.

A trickster.

 “You’re lucky Sam,” Luci eyes him crookedly, “You’ve almost met the complete set.”

Sam simply frowns, forrowing his brow over what Lucifer means.

“Ah Balthy,” Gabe sighs.

“Balthy indeed. How’s his latest venture, and STD’s to report yet?”

The two older men laugh.

“And when’s he going to show his face around here anyway? I’m sure mumma Novak wants her overzealous British compadre to come home.”

Gabe winks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “He’ll show his face for the bachelor party I’m sure. Free booze and less competition for women? Balthy will be there.”

“He would not miss out on teasing dear little Cassie either mind.”

Shaking his head, he pats Lucifer’s shoulder in agreement. Sam’s grateful for their optimism; he’d go crazy if he was left alone with the niggling voices of doubt and sadness in his mind. Gabe takes a deep dramatic breath and rocks back on his heels.

 “Aaaaaanyway,” Gabe draws out the syllable, “hate to break up the reunion – you two didn’t meet did you? – but Cassie needs to use the can and I intend to shove some calories down you twos throats so,” He makes a whistling sound, “Hop to it.”

The white building towers over him again, the shadowed line a threshold he crosses it and walks through the automatic doors. Gabe throws an arm over his shoulder, drawing him in and offering comfort he didn’t know he needed or wanted. Even though he’s slightly taller than Gabe, the short man holds himself with prowess and confidence that Sam can’t help but draw off him. He kind of wants to see Jess. He mostly wants Dean to be ok.

“Dean should have told Cas,” Sam finds himself blurting. It’s starting to eat away at his conscience.

“Yeah that was kind of a dick move,” Gabe sounds less pissed than he thought he would be, “Still, I’ll be sure to prank Deano once he’s back up and running.”

Gabriel steers them along the corridors. It’s a lot less busy now, visiting hours being over and all. Lucky for them they have a doctor who’s related to three of Dean’s friends. Speaking of, they turn down the corner, or slide because Gabriel is a child, his steps falter as they walk into a heated conversation between Cas and... Who is that? He’s sure he looks familiar.

“That would be because he is familiar to you Sammy-ma boy.”

So he had said that out loud, he should probably get some sleep soon. He absently speculates on when Bobby will show up. They had gotten lucky to be able to stay in the waiting area while they stabilised Dean’s condition.

“Who is he?” Sam asks again.

“That would be my hardass of a big brother Mikey.” Gabriel pouts as he stares at his brother, pulling a sweet from his pocket and offering Sam one. He accepts, sliding the wrapper inconspicuously into Gabe’s pocket. The flavour is cherry and it explodes across his tongue, he’s happy to allow the distraction of his surprise take him over.

“He kinda looks like the guy who...” Sam doesn’t remember much about that night. He was young, all his memories are limited to base emotions and feelings. The heat of the flames, the drop of Dean’s body, the outline of men with hoses; the flash of blue and red, the smile of a young kind doctor. “I’d recognise him better if he smiled.”

Gabriel laughs. It sounds bitter and solemn. “Yeah well you met him before Daddio jumped ship.”

Sam stops walking, pulling on Gabriel’s arm so that he stops too and looks at him. He’s never heard Gabriel’s laugh void of mirth and he doesn’t like it. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too kiddo.”

They’ve almost reached them now and Sam can hear some of their hissed conversation. That’s something he’s learnt about Cas, from the number of times Dean has pissed him off. A loud, shouting Castiel isn’t dangerous, but the low uniform growl in his tone, when his voice dips to an impossible pitch (that Sam has tried to imitate and freakishly wonders what _he’ll_ sound like one day), that’s when you have an angry and precarious Novak on your hands.

“I don’t _care,_ Michael. I will do whatever it takes.” Cas’ back is to them, he hasn’t seen or heard them advancing.

“There’s nothing I can do without a _heart_ Castiel, it is entirely out of my control. Do not be so foolish to allow your _feelings_ -“ Michael stops.

Cas tilts his head, pivoting to follow his now lowered gaze. His eyes are cheerless and drained; Sam’s pretty sure he knows the feeling.

“Hello Sam. Dean’s condition is unchanged.”

Seeming to sense the shift in Castiel’s tone, Michael turns his back on the three of them. The door to Dean’s room is closed, however in the silence that hangs between them, the bleeping sounds repulsively loud. Had Sam of eaten he’s certain his stomach would have rolled and emptied itself by now. They’re about to enter Dean’s room when Gabe’s hand on his arm stops him.

“Watch out, tall, crusty and hatted coming our way.” Gabe mutters out the side of his mouth.

“What?” Cas and Sam says at the same time.

“Hello boy.” Bobby’s gruff tone carries down the hall.

Sam runs to him, arms wrapping around Bobby’s middle. He clutches to Bobby like he would his father, grateful he has someone he can trust, someone to shoulder some of this responsibility with him.

“What took you so long?” His words are lost, mumbled deep into the fabric of Bobby’s shirt that smells of car oil and beer. It’s comforting compared to the antiseptic hallways.

“I had to go and get your damn mutt, didn’t I?”

Sam pulls away and smiles.

“Thanks Bobby.”

“How you doing Sam?” He follows Sam down the hall and judging by the way Gabe and Cas share a look and stand up straight, Bobby’s fixing them with the glare.

“I’m worried. It’s real bad, Bobby.”

The older man sighs, “Yeah, I figured as much.”

They reach Gabe and Cas and bundle into Dean’s room, save the pleasantries. Sam figures it’s probably best to do behind closed doors anyway.

“Bobby, this is Cas and Gabe. They’re friends of ours.” Sam hedges, folding himself back into his original position and take Dean’s unmoving palm.

He doesn’t look up to see the confused squint and head tilt of Cas’ head. The slap of Gabe’s palm on Cas’ back is audible though, Bobby raises his cap in greeting.

“The names Bobby-“

“CASTIEL JAMES NOVAK.” A shrill voice cuts into the room, somehow maintaining authority without the need to shout.

“M-mom?” Cas states, staring at her blankly.

Gabe winces and retreats with his hands held up in surrender.

“Young man, I understand that Dean is your friend but you have your finals coming up. You cannot afford to mess this up Castiel.”

“No.”

She blinks; the rest of the room succumbs to the tangible strain between mother and son. He wishes this wasn’t happening right near his unconscious brother. It’s strange though, that Cas’ shoulders tense up and he shifts to shield Dean from his mother’s calculating eye.

“No?” Her tone drops, stunned disbelief masked well in her face.

“He’s more than-“

She talks right over him.

“Castiel, do you know how hard it was for Michael to get into medical school? Dean is a very sweet boy but you cannot stay here with your frie-“

“He’s my boyfriend, Mom.” Castiel says it with defiance, assurance, and if Gabe’s squeak of surprise is anything to go by, Naomi isn’t going to take this well.

The machinery noises and automated intakes of breath punctuate the room. Hell, even Bobby isn’t going near this with a 10 ft pole. Naomi leaves the room. The latch on the door clicks shut.

“That was not the best decision I have made.” Cas frowns, staring at his wringed hands.

“Come now Cassie, it could be worse, you could have outed yourself to Mom _and_ Dean’s Dad.” Instantly, Gabe is by his side filling the role of big brother in the way Sam can see in Dean. He misses that, too.

“I didn’t see that comin’,” Bobby grumbles and watches Dean breathe, “She wants what’s best for you, boy. I’m taking Sam home; you ought to do the same. Bloody idjit wouldn’t want you to fail your classes.”

His eyes haven’t left Dean’s body, though Bobby addresses everyone in the room. Besides Gabe, who’s more like moral support anyway. Sam doesn’t bother arguing. You don’t win with Bobby. He just finds a way to outsmart you and trick you into it.

Sam sniffs, hugging his brother around the tubes. Taking the same direction, and wondrously listening to Bobby – Gabe gapes at Cas’ compliance – Cas kisses Dean solid on the lips. PDA be damned, Sam make a face and looks away. Bobby grasps Dean’s hand and mutters something inaudible in Dean’s ear.

Gabe pulls Cas away, mock saluting Dean’s prone form, his eyes showing more emotion than his actions convey. That happens a lot with Gabriel; his eyes really do give him away. Reluctantly, Cas lets Gabe drag him, although his focus is never broken from Dean’s face. He’s no doubt wishing the same thing as Sam, please let me see those bright green eyes again.

“He’ll pull through,” Bobby reassures him, guiding him out of the room and shutting the door, “That boy is a stubborn ass.”

Tears prick the edge of his eyes, and Sam finds himself barking a laugh anyway. The jerk of the movement springs the droplets free. He shakes his head, a fond smile playing at the corner of his lips.

_He better be, the jerk._


	13. Forgive Me Father, I Have Sinned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's feeling pretty shitty. And he's tired. He might mention that, a few times. 
> 
> Michael Novak, do not be fooled, may save lives during the day but he's not so good with personal calls. He'll try and fit into the too big shoes his father left him. Maybe Castiel can be saved? There is hope, I suppose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow ok Michael became more of an asshole than originally planned. But then he is kind of an asshole anyway. HEY LOOK I UPDATED :D Hit my comment box guys c;

Dean feels like he’s in that floaty place again.

(You know you’re fucked when words like _again_ start cropping up in your life and is associated with dying)

If he could sigh, he’s pretty sure he would.

Besides, yes, floating, the sensation between death and life; that flicker of existence where your body hangs in limbo. It could quite easily go either way. At this point, he figures that since he isn’t feeling the all consuming black nothingness, Sammy must have called an ambulance and that means he’s strapped to a bunch of machines. On the other hand, if he’s strapped to machines, and hasn’t regained consciousness, this limbo is more of a coma and that’s a big oh-no.

Well, that also means that his Dad’s going to be given the decision soon. The good ol’ ‘turn off the life support system, or pray that your loved one falls into the 1% chance category’. All because he can’t get his heart to God damn _beat_ properly without so much as going into cardiac arrest when going for a run. He wishes he could sigh.

But, oh. Dean’s inside voice cringes. That hurts, Jesus fuck does that hurt. He has got to stop thinking. Or, well, focus less on thinking and more on that in-out heart palpitations thing that is currently keeping him alive. That’s a good plan. It takes him a few seconds, but he eventually manages to stop his heart from trying to slam its way through his ribs and out of his chest.

Closing himself off, he focuses on not thinking about anything and suddenly his senses are acutely aware of static. It’s like a blown fuse in his ears. He’s probably tied down to a bed, by weird ass tubes and with a bunch of pokey ass doctors prodding him and talking about him and trying to work out whether or not to give up on him now.

He can’t turn off so he might as well go with it. Question number 1: how’s Sammy doing? Fuck, he isn’t supposed to be doing this. He can’t help it though; he feels like shit and it’s not entirely because he’s dying. How could he continue to do this to Sam and his Dad? God and Bobby and fucking hell, how could he do this to Cas?! He’s such a dumb son of a bitch.

What should he expect if he does wake up?

The whole point of his life has been to not die and because of his stupid heart, take care of Sammy. It’s his fault Sam doesn’t have a father around - at this point he’s not entirely convinced that he isn’t to blame for what happened to Mom. He doesn’t deserve the family he was given. He never should have fallen for Cas. There’s no way in hell he’s going to want to stick around after Dean had lied to him this whole time. That’s sick. He makes himself sick. When he had found out, he had cried solid for hours. And now he’s gone and dumped 6 years of emotional and physical bullshit on his _boyfriend_ in a pathetic three worded text.

_I luv u_

He doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to take it – living – without Cas. Both him and his brother’s play such an integral part of his life, he, in the rough mornings, would imagine them with a future together. No more heart problems, no more crossing the road to see each other. He’d treat him right, naturally, and they’d go to college. Sammy at Stanford, hell, Jess might just follow him there, and he’d come home everyday to Cas.

How stupid of him to allow himself to believe. It’s the weakness Dad would talk about, to let those thoughts in. He can’t help it though. Many nights, he feels more doubt than man.

Mom used to say that angels were watching over him. The closest he’s ever come to an angel, thank you very much, is Cas and the cold truth in the harsh light of day will be his very own ultimatum.

His angel won’t be watching over him, no, he’ll be standing over him.

With his younger brother under his arm, and a suit that makes him look sharp and grown up in a way that Dean will never see. And those blue eyes will be bloodshot, and maybe, maybe he’ll mourn their fleeting romance. Dean will die; he’ll never get to say the words in person, to tell Cas that he loves him in every way he deserves.

Absently, Dean wonders if he’s too brain dead to cry.

He wonders if anyone would be there to see, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Things at home are... Tense to say the least. Cas remains to be a nervous ball of angst, avoiding his mother quite well given their bedrooms are across the hall. He wants to go to Dean, every hour of everyday. He couldn’t care less about school. What kind of priority is that anyhow? The man he wants to spend the rest of his life with needs a new heart and they want him to find out the value of ‘x’.

The Winchester house across the road stays painfully quiet. There hasn’t been any news and Cas hasn’t been able to go back to the hospital. He’s been put on lock down. Gabriel, who his mother has also chosen to ignore the existence of now, sneaks in some days. He tries to keep his mind off it, to help him and Sam with whatever it is they need. Realistically, Cas should just leave home.

When their father left, Castiel being 7 and Sam just a baby, he hadn’t left them completely empty handed. That is, to say, that he had rather a substantial bank account and while he ditched his family, he gave each child a small fortune.

Michael used his to pay his way through college and to get his medical degree. Whereas Gabe brought a restaurant and a house, big enough that he will never have to worry about money or a job. Balthazar is still using his in the fine art of antiquity and dealings, spending money in England, France, Italy, thoroughly soaking up the finer things in life.

Cas had always intended to use his to gain a degree – though not in medicinal practises thank you Michael. However, he couldn’t bring himself to leave Sam alone. In many ways, his relationship with his brother reminds him of Sam and Dean. The problem with Sam is that he sees the best in everyone; he sees the best in Castiel when he certainly should not. So he had stuck around, to help with Sam, to finish school and right now he doesn’t regret a moment of it.

He’s in his room, staring down at his phone, hoping to receive some kind of news. Perhaps no news is good news? Knocking on his door startles him from his thoughts, and he rises out of his pile of books, squinting suspiciously at the door. Mother has yet to speak to him and Sam would simply enter these days.

“Castiel?” Michael’s deep voice reverberates through the door.

He hasn’t so much as visited in years. Castiel is immediately tense.

“Yes?” Cas hedges, backing away slightly.

“I need to talk to you,” He says, the door opening with his words. Uneasily, Michael enters and closes the door behind him. He leans against it, effectively trapping Cas.

“What is it? Have you news on Dean, or are just here to taunt me further?” Cas growls, glaring at his older brother. By the look on his face, he is surprised by the callous tone Castiel had chosen. That’s going against everything they were brought up with – respect your elders, Castiel.

His eyes are hard, sadness staining the edges.

“I... We may have found a heart but-“

“What?!” Cas cuts his brother off.

Hope blooms in his chest, singing in his veins and he begins to pace. All they have to do now is find a surgeon and of course transport Dean; he could probably miss a few days off school to go with him and return in time to do the exams.

A hand is suddenly on his shoulder.

“ _But_ the family simply do not have the funds for this. There is no way for the operation to be performed. I am sorry Castiel.”

“No!” Cas shouts, dislodging Michael’s grip, “My inheritance, I will pay for it all!”

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence. Michael chokes incredulously.

“You must be joking.” His face is still stunned with disbelief.

“No I am not ‘joking’,” He air quotes his brother, mocking his tone, “I am in love with him. You of all people should understand.”

Another choking noise follows, before he feels something rough twist in the fabric of his shirt, turning him to face the seething glare, a shadow of the man who used to be his brother. Castiel swallows hard. Speaking of Lucifer may not have been the best tactic to take. Winchester luck must be catching.

“Do not speak of him to me!” He hisses, “That was _sin_ Castiel, _sin_. Mother and I are trying to raise you, to show you what Father would have wanted. Do not tell me that you are so delusional to think that this behaviour is _normal_.”

He grabs his brother’s hand and rips it off. His shirt tears, like a crack of lightning in the room, and Michael stumbles back.

“You will not talk of _him_ like he is nothing. You can pretend to yourself, Michael, whatever you wish. But I am in love with Dean Winchester. I cannot see how the God that I was introduced to could ever see the way I feel for him as anything other than beautiful.”

Michael raises his fist and Cas prepares for the blow. In the corner of his eye, in the space beneath his brother’s elbow, he can see young teary eyes. He tilts his head to the side, this is the decision he will make. Conveying for Sam to run, who knows how far Michael will go, he closes his eyes and waits for the hit to come. He hopes Sam did run, he doesn’t want him to witness this. Should he put up more of a fight? The fist will be coming down any moment now.

It doesn’t. Blinking, Cas opens his eyes and stares at him. Michael sighs, deflates and drops his arm.

“Then I am sorry to have to do this, brother.”

Cas is about to question him, when his vision starts to spin and the whole world goes black. He thinks maybe he saw Sam, with his palm clasped in a woman’s but he cannot be sure. Whatever happens now, he knows one thing for certain: nothing will ever make him regret his choice. Dean. The heart! He has to-

 

* * *

 

This isn’t how he figured he’d go out. Love sick, tired, lonely. Someone should probably call a doctor, he muses, the rate of his heart is starting to droop. He’s tired of being scared. He’s tired of being alone. He’s sick of hurting the people he loves. This would be so much easier if he could let go. He can’t though. He’s tired. Did he mention that? The floating feeling is starting to be drowned out. Heart beats pump, ricocheting through the emptiness of his head.

He’ll get to see his Mom again.

Everything will be ok Dean.

_...... I love you ........_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm renaming myself Queen of the Cliff Hanger ;)


	14. Denim Wrapped Liabilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of new faces, some new places. 
> 
> Sammy's feeling down. 
> 
> John has some pretty dark secrets of his own. 
> 
> There's good news - right? - on the horizon.
> 
> And we find out just what Cas has been thrown into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so remember how this was almost realistic? Well the heart information will remain to be but I'm using author's discretion on the rest. And as a side note, I am horrified to see that in the US it really is that expensive for a heart transplant. I hope none of you ever have to got through any kind of op, and that if you do your insurance covers it.
> 
> Don't go to murdering psychopaths. This has been a psa. 
> 
> Sorry for mistakes. Yup.

Spring showers descend on the sleepy town of Lawrence. It brings too, the harsh splinters of lightning and low rumbles of thunder. The cleansing balm of freshly fallen rain runs its palms along the streets; the cold air is damp and muggy. From the concrete, the smell of diluted tin and tar rise, flooding the quiet roads with a renewed sensation of life. The rain is nice, like white noise everywhere but not as empty; filling a hole nobody realised was empty.

Sam’s footsteps patter weakly in time with the rain on the sidewalk, the beat falling in sync with the peace of early morning. The music in his ears buzzes, blotting out the angry world around him. It’s not out of the ordinary for him to be out at this time – he likes the routine of it, finds it calming – and although his hair is flattened, wet against his forehead, he feels the same serene quiet closing over him.

He focuses less on the lyrics to the song, pushing the door to his local haunt in, and pops the ear phones out. The woman wiping down the counter smiles, her daughter slides off the stool and runs to hug him.

“Hey Jo,” He huffs, grabbing armfuls of girl before they both topple over, “You mind letting go any time soon?”

Relinquishing her grip hesitantly, he can see that her eyes are puffy and red. His near genuine smile falls, head whipping from her stricken expression to Ellen’s.

“John stopped by, Sam, we’re both praying for you.” Tears ring the outside of her eyes and it’s too much, too soon.

He gulps.

“I just want a coffee to go, please ma’am.”

She nods, decidedly choosing not to mention it and he is thankful for her indiscretion. Jo is still playing with his hand, a small frown tugging at the bridge of her nose. They don’t break the silence, the quiet whirr of the machine working and the faint zing of a guitar from his still playing music elapsing between them. He winces. Charlie would kill him for not pausing the song before carelessly stopping listening.

He waits patiently, allowing the scent of his own clammy clothing and coffee fill him up. The liquid is black as Ellen pours it into a large styrofoam cup, the swirl of cream breaking the solid colour like a tornado in the summer. His tongue licks his bottom lip, the exchange of money for coffee happening without a conscious thought.

“I’ll be back later,” He mumbles, inhaling the rising steam. The first taste is burning his tongue, but the warmth curls in his stomach and settles, wriggling through his veins and pushing out the cold. Ellen grunts her usual goodbye and Jo sort of glares at him for retreating and backing out so cowardly. With his free hand he pushes the music back into his ears, closing his eyes, letting the caffeine eradicate the fatigue in his system. He steps back out into the rain, attention snapping back to his original motive of being out.  

His pace is slowing, the further he meanders through the town. The bag on his back is heavy, his jeans soaked through with the perpetual drizzle. Gates loom on his horizon, the gradual beeps of cars and awakening shops falling away behind him. He sidesteps through the small gap, ducking under the chain that supposedly keeps the rusted entrance locked.

He wanders through the rows, feet tracing lost patterns in the mud. 

Droplets splatter on the cool marble, Sam runs his hand, barely touching, along it in reverence. He sits down, uncaring for the wet he can feel seeping through his trousers, uncaring of how his books are probably drowning in his bag. He closes his eyes, purses his lips and removes his earphones. Shuffling closer, he drops his head so that it leans against the headstone, shivering as a gust of wind rattles past. He takes in the sounds; his own shaky breathing, the rustle of overhanging trees and the faint patters of the rain. He sits back seriously, wiping at the tears like someone might see, like they would be ashamed of him if they did.

His fingers trace the indented lettering, water hanging off his eyelashes as he blinks.

“Hey Mom.” He sniffs, fingers curling into a fist resting against the solid stone. “I need to talk to you about Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

John takes the steps carefully, steady and measured, just as he would as a soldier. He knows where the authority lies here and he knows exactly what his limits are. If he comes off too strong, he could get both his boys killed. If he allows himself to be manipulated any further, Dean will die and he’s not so sure he or Sam will come back from it this time.

Sam, who has become closed off and even more abrasive in Dean’s absence, was gone this morning. It is only 5am. He doesn’t know whether to be glad or concerned that his sons seem to have inherited more than his bad luck and stubborn attitude. Whereas Dean will follow his orders, Sam questions everything. Except Dean. He guesses that’s what happens when he leaves Dean to raise him though – Sam’s first word _was_ Dean. Again, he doesn’t know whether to be filled with pride or hurt that Sam’s father figure is his oldest (and let’s face it, has spent the majority of his life) ill son.

However, he really shouldn’t be focussing on his ‘ _denim wrapped liabilities_ ’. Had the statement not have been true, he would have shot the man who dared speak of his kids on site. In true Winchester fashion – that is, that tragedy follows them like the plague – shooting the man would have the same effect as beheading Hydra, only the two new heads would take the shape of his sons.

It’s a pretty messed up situation he’s found himself in.

His heart clenches at what Mary would think of him, of how he’s been forced to raise their kids. Dean learnt to shoot a gun before he learnt to throw a ball. He never once complained though, a soldier, an instrument. And Sam was much the same, taking to intelligence and begrudgingly following Dean’s lead – albeit older and only under Dean’s insistence. At this point, Dean holds more authority over Sam than him. Vice versa, only Sam can tell Dean to take his pills, go to the doctors, and stay in school. Again, not where his priorities should be lying.

He takes the steps, two at a time. You’d think, given that he is in a fairly obvious building in one of the more upper class suburbs, that someone would notice a major organisation pulling the town’s strings. But that’s why it works, isn’t it?

The building is fancy, plainly decorated on the outside and like a snapshot, a façade of lived in on the inside. Pale walls and minimalistic furniture inhabit it, very little activity occurring on the ground floor. As you rise, so shall the illegal activity. John snorts; there would have been a day when he’d swear on the good book that he would never do something like this. That was before Mary, and Dean and Sam. Funny, how your ideals are controlled.

Men stand either side of the room. He keeps his eyes trained on the door, allowing them to pat him down but scowling at them for good measure. John doesn’t roll over and play dead for anyone. Least of all for the scum bag waiting on the other side of the oak panel.

Cleared by the two ass clowns, he enters the room without knocking. The man’s anticipating his imminent arrival anyway.

“John! It’s been so long, how’s the wife...? The kids?” The man drawls not bothering to turn to properly acknowledge his presence, and yet simultaneously making him regret the day he took the bullets out of that gun.

Yellow eyes.

Oh yeah, John found him. In fact, it’s questionable to which extent that phrase is accurate. ‘Zazel found John. Having kidnapped Dean and Sam first. He can’t believe the boys don’t remember. Maybe they’ve both repressed it.

Unfortunately for the crawling of John’s skin and the blood boiling in hatred, Azazel is a high paid, very wealthy bureaucrat, who happens to have every damn department under his thumb. Including the hospital; all of its surgeons and all of its staff.

Why did the Yellow Eyes Arsonist get away from police? He’d had his fun, and had grown bored, so he made a deal with the chief and voila, here he is. There was a phase, he had admitted while a far younger John grit his teeth and bit back tears, when he believed he could make strong, useful, men out of the survivors of fires. It had also been a science experiment. The results were deemed inconclusive.

How did John, an ex-soldier, ex mechanic, alcoholic (used in this sense as a noun as opposed to an adjective at this point) pay for the very first, hefty, medical bill that saved Dean’s life? Simple. Azazel offered him a deal.

_A life for a life, John._

_You run my errands, and I keep your boy’s ticker a-tocking._

_Or I can kill them both now._

What was he supposed to say?

And now, he swallows down his anger, the open wound at having to remain in the presence of the man who took his wife without wrapping his hands around that wrinkly neck like he’d dreamed, imagined, hoped he always would. He has to be a father, not a grieving husband. The money he makes from his ‘jobs’ goes straight back to Azazel. That’s why they are financially spiralling down. This pathetic excuse of a human holds his son’s heart in his hands... Quite literally.

“I need money.” John states.

“And I need a new pet. How is your youngest getting along?”

The chair swivels and John digs his blunt nails into his hands. Azazel always had a strange infatuation with Sam. It’s the reason he never let Dean leave Sam alone for so long. He was afraid, irrationally maybe so, that Azazel would cross him and take Sam. Some risks you can’t afford to take.

“Dean’s heart... They have found a donor but I can’t afford the operation.” _Not without not paying you_. John leaves it unsaid, because really, he could get himself shot. Then the boys would well and truly be alone. Bobby has made his concern clear, but he doesn’t know the extent of the shit he’s been wading through. The extra bottles of Jack seem like very little comeuppance given the circumstances.

Threading his fingers together, Azazel flexes his hands. The joints pop, loud in the imposing room.

“Well, I have to keep my favourite employee happy don’t I? There’s a surgeon, you may have heard of him, he can do it for half the cost.”

John shifts at the glint in the man’s eyes; it’s like alcohol and fire, volatile and voracious. He doesn’t trust it. He doesn’t trust anyone with his boys. Hell, some days he doesn’t even extend himself that courtesy.

“Alastair will take good care of Dean _if_ you get me 50k up front.”

He splutters, knowing that in total the whole thing will cost around 100,000 dollars – this means that even after all these years the man is only going to front half the money.

“You know damn well that I can’t do that.” He growls.

Azazel hums. “You’re right, and your employment period would be coming to an end... I’ll tell you what Johnny boy. I’ll pay for it all.”

He glowers.

“What’s the catch?”

“It’s a loan. Only my rates are a lot higher than the banks. You fail to pay your weekly amount: you might get a facial. The next time you do it; Sam falls down the stairs and breaks an arm. You want to start playing around, make a run for it, and leave your boys with the fall out? A well placed punch to the sternum, no matter how healthy your heart, and Dean will end up going down ahead of schedule.”

He had moved closer, since he started speaking, tone dripping with sarcasm and eyes hardening. His sleeves are rolled up, crooked knuckles and scarred arms on show. John holds his ground, tensing for whatever comes next.

“Do I make myself clear?” There’s amusement there, a challenge, daring John to defy him. To make a run for it. John of all people knows you cannot run forever.

Sick rises in his throat, if he says yes now he’s sold his soul for life. There’s no way he’ll be able to pay that back in his lifetime – that’s one hell of a legacy to leave his boys. His hands are tied; he has to do something to help Dean. In hindsight, working with a bunch of criminals probably isn’t the first answer he should have run to.

He nods, slowly.

“Good. And as extra incentive...”

The fist connects with his eye socket, hard. For an old dude, Azazel is no weak man. He might have a following to almost religious proportions, but he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Secretly, John thinks he enjoys it. He’s a soldier, to some extent; he understands the rush of chaos at your own hand. He feels a rough tug in his, surely much greyer than he remembers, hair dragging his head up so that he can feel the sickly hot breaths against his ear.

“I’m sending Dean a gift too, just to make it absolutely clear how easily I can get to you.”

Face white, John runs back past those bare walls and flat faces, sliding into the Impala and dialling his phone.

 

* * *

 

 

Buzzing in his pocket stops Sam from talking. He likes talking to Mom, even though she can’t say anything back. It eases something in him, an instinctive and primal feeling. He tells her as much as possible how much he loves her and misses her. The torment of never really being given the chance to be with his Mom hurts, constantly.

He frowns down at the phone in his hand, rain drops splattering on the screen.

“Dad?”

“Sam, where are you?”

He swallow, his mouth instantly becoming dry, arid.

“I’m... With Mom, sir.”

“Alright boy. I’m on my way to pick you up now.”

Dad sounds unnervingly distressed. Nothing can rattle his Dad; he’s a blank slate of emotion. Either way, Sam stands, shaking his legs to stave off the numbness, crushing the empty cup in his hand. He heads back towards the gates, slipping under the chain and waits on the outskirts of the graveyard. It’s colder now, the damp clinging to his bones and causing him to shiver.

The roar of the Impala soon sounds up the gravel pathway, grinding to a halt by Sam’s feet. His Dad’s face is taut with urgency, the jerk of the Impala closing the door the rest of the way as Sam slides in.

“What’s going on Dad?”

A gentle rock song, one Dean could probably have named, given the year and artist without a second thought, plays softly under the hum of the engine.

“We got a heart.” Is all John says.

But that’s good news, isn’t it?

Sam stares at his Dad for a further few seconds, zeroing in on the dark inflamed skin of his eye before slumping back into the leather. The heater’s on and it’s warm, if John doesn’t want to talk, Sam will find out eventually. He lets himself focus on the words John had said and not the consequences of what John no doubt did to obtain it.

 _Dean’s gunna be ok_.

They pull up to the hospital, lagging behind a queue to the car park. John’s fingers tap restlessly on the wheel, eyes flitting from the misshapen building to the dwindling numbers of cars ahead. In a way that reminds him distinctly of Dean – who knows who picked up the habit from who, both men treat the Impala with reverence many do not even hold with people – John parks, mindful of the cars beside them, mentally calculating the safest place for her.

He strides ahead of Sam, dutifully following, to the ward where Dean’s been kept and it’s, from the moment they step foot inside, carnage in hospital form. Nurses are pacing, scurrying from room to room. The bleeping of a critical heart monitor pulls the attention of a very tired looking passing doctor, and he rushes to the area the sound comes from. It’s nothing like Sam remembers Dean’s ward. There’s too much... action.

Sam hears much less than he sees John cry out and he runs to catch up. He slides across the tiled flooring, pushing past to get through Dean’s door. Only, when his eyes scan frantically in the room, it’s empty.

John grabs a nurse, physically, and demands to know where his son is. She appears flustered, shaking him off, but her eyes crumple in sympathy.

“He’s been moved to ICU. He suffered injuries and they have to do an emergency heart transplant _now_. I hope your insurance is adequate, Mr Winchester.”

Sam glances at her name tag, _Lisa_ , and the name spikes something in his memories. He’s certain that’s the sweet nurse Dean spoke of upon getting his repeat prescriptions. She looks truly upset. He squashes down the lumps of fear and worry that clump together in his gut, taking his Dad’s hand, which is still frozen in mid action, and drags him in the direction of ICU.

 _Suffered injuries_?

He’s in a hospital, how do you ‘suffer injuries’. Tears suddenly well in his eyes. Who beats a dying boy? Without realising it, he’s clenching hard enough into his Dad’s hand that he manages to snap them both out of their individual trances.

“He’ll be ok, Sammy.” John says, his voice heavy and eyes more tired than Sam’s ever seen.

He doesn’t know who his Dad is trying to convince; only that he isn’t doing a particularly good job of it. Sam allows himself to be directed by his Dad, as he does all the communicating to find out where exactly Dean’s been taken to.

They come to a stop at wide doors, the shouts from the operating theatre in full swing ahead of them. Part of Sam never wants to know what his brother’s body must look like now, behind those doors. The other part needs to know what else could possibly happen to him.

Sagging into the waiting chairs lined against the wall, he dares a glance at his Dad. John is staring right at those doors, his eyes glassy and _wrong_ like when he’s had too many to drink. A while might pass, or it may be minutes, but John hastily stands, wiping a messy tear from his cheek that had staggered out at the force of the movement.

“You want a coke, or something to eat?” He asks, unable to stop checking on the room where Dean is.

“Coffee and an apple if they have one.” Sam hasn’t had anything to eat all day. His stomach protests, painfully, and he is unaccustomed to the feeling of ‘empty’. Dean always made sure of that. They took care of each other, always have.

He exhales, the heavy footfall of his Dad fading into the distance. The commotion of before has abruptly fallen away; Sam is left with a hollow corridor and strange sounds and gnawing in his mind.

The doors burst open, a tall thin man with blood covered overalls steps out. He looks left, and right, wispy gloved fingers stretching around a scalpel, in what could be exasperation, when he sees only Sam waiting there. Their eyes meet. Sam recognises the face. He’s seen him in the papers. (He wants to go to law school, ok; his teacher had recommended learning some case studies.)

This man is Alastair ... Well, ‘Alastair’ is the important thing to remember. He has had more ethical and personal complaints than many doctors get in a 40 year career, although nothing can be proven of course. He’s ruthless with a blade and has had rumoured gang ties. The claims fell away, disgruntled patients crawl back to silence and Alastair keeps his license and a reputation to in still discomfort in any God fearing human.

How can a hospital this white have a dirty stain like Alastair hiding under the surface? It doesn't make sense. Not that Sam can dwell on that fact. Alastair is still a renowned surgeon, even if his ratty features and sadistic smile make your skin crawl. He must be performing Dean’s operation, so he will get the heart and get better soon. That's all the matters right?  

 Right? 

He watches the man walk past him, a sinister smile, predatory, as he ambles past. Unexpectedly a hand grips his shoulder, a squeeze of reassurance for whom he’s uncertain. Not that he blames his Dad; Alastair is a creepy son of a bitch. Sam almost laughs at how his internal monologue sounds like Dean.

 Sam knows something's wrong with this whole shebang. It doesn't take a genius to smell a rat, the festering morals and purifying remains of his Dad’s soul slowly decaying in his eyes. He's up to something; nothing good can come from midnight talks with Bobby and an increased number of empty bottles in his general vicinity. Least of all, nothing can good with someone like Alastair being involved. 

 Despite the unease wringing knots in his gut, Sam remains silent. He tries to forget, that Dean has suffered something in the unknown, that his four hour, possibly more, operation has already started. He could die. He could-

Sam takes his mind off it by thinking about school, and how he has mostly been avoiding people because if he so much as makes eye contact they take that as an invitation to have a conversation. Which, inevitably, ends up not only with the absence of his big brother in question, but of the well known boyfriend who has disappeared too. Sam frowns. He can’t imagine why Cas would just drop off the face of the planet like that. He thought they were friends. He could use some support right now - Dean didn't even tell Charlie - and after a week of too long looks and concerned eyes, he doesn’t know how much more he can take.

Thus bringing him back to the question:

What the hell happened to Cas?

 

* * *

 

 

Cas blinks his eyes open, confused instantly by his surroundings. The walls are stone, certainly not the parameters of his room, or of any room he can recall ever being in. There is a sharp pang in the back of his head and as he gradually regains consciousness, he remembers what had happened.

“Michael,” He hisses, in distaste for his brother and in surprise when he attempts to move and a fresh dig of pain sweeps through his body. It feels as though he has been split apart and reassembled, like his body isn’t his own.

He swings his legs over the side of his bed, testing his own durability and instantly regrets his own brashness in getting to his feet. The floor ascends towards his face with overwhelming speed and he meets it with a pitiful flump.

 _Dean_.

He has to get to Dean.

“Dean! The heart,” he moans from the floor. He must have been drugged, or his brain feels a mush of incoherent thoughts and misplaced timelines.

“Castiel,” A hard voice calls from above him, “Welcome to your new home. We are a Catholic College; if you would so wish to remove yourself from the floor we can discuss your study opportunities.”

He makes a noise, of rebellion and discomfort. He’s 18... They cannot keep him here against his will. The fuzzy outline of polished shoes assembles in the corner of his vision and a light tap to his side has him rolled onto his back.

“We are a boarding school, and yes, we will be keeping you until you are deemed fit to enter society as a working man. Come with me?”

Cas can see better now, his head has stopped spinning in three different directions. He’s an old man, the person talking to him, white hair fraying on his head and steel eyes that are zoned in on him. The suit he wears is smart, unwrinkled, and spotless. He resists the urge to scoff at the proffered hand. As it is, all his body will allow in protest is to turn onto his side. There’s no way for him to get out of this.

The man tuts.

“I was hoping you were not going to be difficult.”

A door clicks and Castiel is once again left to suffocate in the silence of his own melancholy thoughts. He’s going to be stuck here, who can be sure how long.

For all he knows, Dean could already be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *psst* tell me what you think of my completely-unexpected-this-time-last-week plot direction c:


	15. Interlude: Memory No. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what really went down when Dean collapsed for the first time at 10 years old?
> 
> And how did Sammy take it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the wonderful creative juices of the marvelous Mario c: what a babe.
> 
> Hit the comments guys xo

There’s beeping. It’s loud, uniform, consistent. The doctor’s eyes sweep over him, narrowing at the toy in his hand before he lifts him up and places him on the large table. This room is kind of less boring than all the other’s he’s been in today, with colourful lions and giraffes climbing the walls.

“So,” The doctor says, checking the folder in his hand, “Sam, my name is Michael. How do you feel?”

Sam kicks his legs on the side of the table, causing it to rattle. He grins; making the sound affects for his toy jet and then stops himself. Dad says you should always answer people like doctors. They’re the good guys.

“I’m ok. Have you met my bruther Dean?” He answers, distractedly. 

The question takes the doctor by surprise and he frowns, moving around him to get a stick.

“I haven’t, no. Open your mouth please.”

Sam complies, sticking his tongue out, allowing the man to poke the thin piece of wood inside his mouth. It feels weird, dry, and Sam’s glad when he chucks it in the bin. Gloved hands peel open his eyelids and Michael shines a light in them. He blinks rapidly.

“Tell me Sam, have you had any trouble breathing. Does your chest hurt at all?”

He shakes his head. The doctor acknowledges this silently, reaching for the long thing that looks like a pair of headphones with a disk at the end. Reassuringly, the Michael doctor smiles.

“This is going to be cold, ok?”

Nodding, Sam starts to wonder where Dean is. The doctor should meet Dean, he could make him laugh and show him funny tricks. Sam’s no good at that, but Dean says he’ll teach him jokes when he gets older. He wishes he was older now.

The disk is cold. It snakes up his chest and presses where his heart is. The doctor seems very interested in his heart, although his face is concentrated he isn’t really frowning.

“Alright Sam, your ticker sounds good, we can get you back to your Dad.” He starts to write in his notes and Sam has already kicked off the table and headed towards the door, legs totting unsure to the handle.

“Hang on Sam,” Setting the paper down, Michael comes to the door and leads him out. “You didn’t even wait for the candy!” He says, laughing. Dad is standing where he had left him, watching the doors they took his brother through, and the smile is slowly fading from Sam’s face. Michael is funny but he’s not Dean.

 

A couple of days later, they are standing back in the same place.

Dad has all these funny lines on his forehead and around his eyes, the ones that get bent up and jagged when he looks at Dean. This place smells funny, like when Miss made him wash his hands with the strong soap after touching that dead bird.

They have been here for a few days now, since he saw Dean fall asleep at school.

He doesn’t know what happened, one minute Dean was smiling at him across the school hall and the next he fell down. The teachers wouldn’t let him go check if Dean was alright; he had to sit in the stuffy head teacher’s office while they called Dad. He tried to tell them that Dad was a superhero, who travels across the country delivering products and was probably busy. They had their ‘adult expression’ on and they had asked him if he wanted to speak to someone. Come to think of it, Sam frowns, they were being very kind to him and talking in that soft voice that Dean does sometimes when Sam won’t let him put his socks on and wants to make him do something.

Sam looks up, to his Dad, and then back down to their hands. His looks really small, clasped tightly between Dad’s thick fingers. Following his Dad’s gaze, his eyes meet the bottom of a window frame. He pushes himself up, to his tiptoes, trying to use the hand – currently holding his super cool fighter jet that Dean had brought him – to give himself more purchase to look at what his Dad can see. Alas, his hair is too long and his small legs too short, so he slips down with a huff.

“I wanna play with Dean Dad.” Sam grumbles, rocking on his feet and tugging at their joined hands.

“Not now Sammy.” His Dad replies, voice strained.

Sam looks up, wide eyed. They had to leave Dean here a couple of nights ago, (Sam knows that because he slept in the car without his usual shoulder as a pillow and he had a nightmare last night and Dean wasn’t there with him). Why isn’t Dean ready to play?

“Why not Dad? Does Dean not wanna play with me?” His bottom lip trembles, tears welling up the thought. He must have done something wrong, maybe it was his fault Dean was tired and fell down! The first tear dribbles out, trailing a big, miserably cold streak down his cheek.

John tears his gaze away from Dean and drops into a crouch to face Sam. He isn’t supposed to cry, Dean never cries so Sam shouldn’t neither.

_It’s cos we’re soldiers Sammy, you and me._

_Is that why Dad wasn’t mad when I stuck my soldier in the Impala, because it needed a soldier too?_

_Dean had smiled at him, crooked dimples crinkling as he ruffled Sam’s hair._

_Sure buddy, the Impala needed a soldier too._

“Sam, Dean loves you. He’s just... Asleep, right now.”

A calloused finger rubs the tear away, cupping his cheek. Exhaling loudly, John closes his eyes. He draws Sam into a hug, lifts him into his arms and buries his face in Sam’s shoulder. They don’t normally do hugs, and Sam is fairly content to hold onto his Dad’s neck and from this new vantage point look over through the window. Sam’s face scrunches up, that can’t be Dean in there. The bed has lots of machines and tubes around it; from here he can barely see Dean.

“When he wakes up, can we play?” Sam asks, mimicking the plane flying towards Dean and dive bombing into his chest.

Dad sniffs, pulling away and dropping Sam back down to the floor. He doesn’t like being this short. It’s the same as when Dean says he’s the older brother and that he’ll always be bigger, but Sam’s going to be taller one day. He’ll show Dean.

“Yeah, if Dean’s up for it.”

The voice doesn’t sound right, it’s edgy and coarse. Sam scowls again. Why can’t he play _next_ to Dean while they wait for him to wake up? Considering how long he’s been asleep, Dean sure is lazy.

A nurse, _that’s what they’re called Sammy_ , strolls past and double takes at seeing his pout. She tilts her head and smiles, holding up her finger in the uniform gesture that means he has to wait. He sighs, because really he just wants to see Dean. Swiftly returning, the nurse briskly hands him a small lollipop and smiles sweetly.

“Got yourself a handful there,” She says to his Dad. Sam doesn’t know what she means though because his Dad is really strong and he isn’t all that big yet, least not as big as Dean is.

“He’s no trouble. Do you know when we can go in?”

The nurse does that pitying look and Sam can tell that his Dad doesn’t appreciate it. People listen to Dad, because he’s got the authorit-a-tive voice and he’s got a glare of knives. Except Sam, who likes to ask as many questions as possible. Dean always tells him to shut up, especially when Dad comes back with frosted glass eyes and bad breath.

“I’ll find out for you.”

Leaving them, she walks through the door to Dean’s room; Sam catches a glimpse of more white floors and bleeping machines. Dad’s eyes track her, laser pointed, and Sam flies the plane along the underside of the window, sucking on his lolli with his free hand. It is sickly sweet, cherry, no, stawberry ( _it’s st **r** awberry Sammy_) and he hums, tongue running over the surface.

The doors open, a quiet creaking.

“He has been taken off the sedatives and should be waking up soon. You can sit with him now.”

“Thank you,” Dad says, taking Sam’s hand that is still wrapped around the stick of the candy and dragging him inside.

Slumping into the chair beside Dean’s bed, he lets go of Sam's hand and stares at Dean. Sam scrunches his nose, taking his freedom to walk around Dean’s room. There’s nothing particularly special about it, it’s all plain and white. He should draw Dean a picture, to make it look nicer. Only, he doesn’t have any paper. Pouting, he crawls onto Dean’s bed-

“Careful Sammy.”

-carefully, making extra sure he doesn’t touch any of Dean’s tubes. There’s a big bandage wrapped around his chest and the way Dean breathes doesn’t appear to be overly comfortable. Sam settles back, leaning on the end of Dean’s bed and plays quietly. He hopes Dean wakes up soon, it’s really boring without Dean making the noises too.

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t remember a lot. He was grinning at Sam, at school, doing his customary glance to check that the squirt was doing alright, and then he was overcome, literally, by a terrifying clench in his chest. It felt as though someone had wrapped their hands around his heart and squeezed, strangling the life out of him.

Now, consumed by absolute blackness, Dean considers the possibility that he is dead. He knew that maybe something wasn’t right, about his heart and his health because he had to be extra cautious doing physical activity. Dad says it’s the fire, and the doctors he always had to go see thought so too. He hadn’t been given anything for it, the pain. Merely being told that they were monitoring the effects was clearly an inadequate solution.

For a long time, he hangs in a state of sort of nothingness. He worries, mostly about his Dad and Sam. His job is to look after Sam, how can he do that from Mount Doom? His heart’s a volcano and it’s about to flat line. Compression, on his chest, on the darkness, has him gasping, eyes wrenching open into too bright lights.

Everything’s so disorientating, the smells and sounds and _pain_ over coming him all at once. Before he knows what’s happening, his Dad’s face is in his view and the pings of a heart monitor continue to climb. Crying out, his deepest fears and thoughts explode out of him, long hard sobs that make his chest ache claw their way out of his throat. Each wheeze hurts more, making him cry harder and the look of pure anguish on his face is enough to send Dean into a downward spiral of self loathing.

_You’re supposed to be a soldier Dean, strong, you never cry in front of Sammy._

“I’m sorry for being strong enough! I’m sorry for being sick! I’m sor-“ Dean hiccups, tears solidly running down his face.

Doctors rush in, a blur of movement and latex gloves touching his body. He doesn’t register them leaving, deeming him alive or whatever, just his Dad’s hand, white knuckled from his grip against his own and Sam’s openly scared expression as he clutches his toy to his chest.

Sam drops the toy, leaving it forgotten, and clambers up the bed. He’s little, but his frame is dexterous and he leans over, taking Dean’s face in his hands. The brown eyes that stare into him are wide and each new sob that racks from his body is painful, wrenching his heart like a faulty wire. If Sammy’s ok, he’ll be ok.

“Dean it’s ok we don’t have to play now.” Sam pats his cheeks, searching his face and frowning as another groan of pain and sniffles trickles out over his resolve.

His chubby fingers take the amulet that had fallen in his movements down the side of his neck, holding the glinting figure in front of his face.

“This protects you, rewember Dean. I got you. It’s time for a little faith Dean.”

The kid’s what, 6, and he’s got that goofy ass grin on his face in a way that manages to stifle the wet, angry tears still forcing their way out. He’s got 2 years of repressed crying to get out of his system, not to mention all the new stuff he’s got to deal with. His heart feels blistered and poked at, his body raw and exposed, a nerve frayed and open.

Still, he manages a shaky smile, raising the arm that hasn’t got an IV line in it to ruffle Sam’s hair (which, by the way, takes a lot more energy than he’d care to admit).

“I’m always going to be,” He hiccups, “Here to bug your scrawny ass Sammy.”

Apparently content, Sam sits back and Dean continues to cry. It’s bad enough with himself, his Dad, but why’s he got to go and put Sammy through this too?

A few hours later, with snot having to be repeatedly wiped from his face and tear streaks dried on his cheeks, Dean slips back under consciousness. Maybe it was the emotional exhaustion, or the way his heart felt like _it_ was falling asleep that draws him under. He doesn’t know. He just has to make sure he gets better, his Dad and Sam need him.


	16. How The Mighty-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's time at the Catholic school isn't unpleasant. He is fed, offered bed and access to showers, and he will soon get an education many people would give anything for.
> 
> One problem.
> 
> He was taken from his family; he still hasn't got any word on Dean.
> 
> But he's a Novak, and if they're good at anything it's adapting to the situation.
> 
> Sam gets a surprise, and for a moment, he can pretend that everything will be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Happy typing noises*
> 
> You're all awesome. Thank you all for reading and commenting, and the kudos? Holy hell, I'm blushing at my screen. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I do bringing this too you. 
> 
> Let me know what you think guys c:
> 
> *minor edit* so i've been running on very little sleep and only just realised that i described Naomi here, and she's Cas mom. This was originally, and if my brain wasn't putty, Metatron. I have edited it now, my apologies.

Cas has been planning this since he got himself together. They hadn’t drugged him, thankfully, and his earlier dizziness was due to moderate-severe concussion rather than through nefarious actions. Remaining quiet and, for all intents and purposes, under the radar had been difficult; he has no idea where this place is or how he is going to get out. There aren’t any phones, available for students anyway, and besides sitting through mandatory church services, Cas hasn’t seen anymore of Zachariah. Not that he is complaining, he doesn’t find Zachariah’s company overly appealing.

He has managed to keep his thoughts away from Dean, by studiously taking to Bible studies and, when he can, scoping out the layout of the building. From what he can ascertain, it is a large converted mansion – he has only been in his room on the second floor, the dining hall and the library – with as many as 500 students. His contact with these people has been limited; they are all reserved, rule stickling Christians. Which Castiel is too, but his time with Dean has left him feeling a residual rebellion that won’t shut off no matter how hard he prays for absolution.

There are no loopholes, as far as he can see. Subtle presence can be felt throughout the school. While they eat, people monitor the doorways. It’s constant, Castiel notes, and the only real freedom is when they are told that it is lights off at 10pm. The structure of the house remains monitored, cameras for surveillance, by people who check the grounds. The only way out is through the front doors, if he could distract them when they go for outside studies (which for him remain a myth until he chooses what  _to_  study) he might have a chance to get away.

So he thought, until he returned to his room after an hour of confession to find a man stood in his room. He is smartly dressed in plain grey trousers and suit jacket, his white shirt neatly tucked in, showing his chunky frame. Unsure whether it is his place to be in his room at the same time, Cas knocks on the wooden door.

“Good evening Castiel.” His voice is clipped, diplomatic. “I came here to speak to you about your course choices.”

Castiel makes his way into his room wearily.

“I have had some thought.” He admits, because in the down time of his escapism his eyes had flicked over the pamphlets. This isn’t like someone telling him what to study; he can finally have some choice here. The isolation is what he dislikes.

“That is good Castiel, may I ask what changed your mind?”

He elects to ignore his question.

“Either Astronomy or Zoology, but I want to specialise in Melittology if I do that.”

They have managed to circle round one another, so that Cas is in his room and the man is in the doorway.

“Melittology?”

He looks up, making eye contact with him.

“Bees.”

“Bees,” he repeats, distinctly unimpressed. However, he nods, firmly, “I shall see what we can do.”

Leaving, he shuts his door behind him. Cas sits, awkwardly on the edge of the bed, staring out in front of him.

He hadn’t bothered to take the time to appreciate the aesthetics of his room, or his clothing, but he does now. It seems appropriate, in the lull and the calm before the storm. The walls are stone, huge bricks with aged cracks. There’s a cross above his bed, the cream sheets neatly tucked in, the same way he left them. In the left corner is a desk, along with writing utensils and paper. The furniture is basic, necessities over warmth and comfort.

He’s adorned with a loose fitting white shirt and trousers, resembling that of an asylum rather than college. It’s not as though he had time to pack and bring more than just the clothes on his back. The others wander the halls in sweaters and shirts and he sticks to what they have provided him with and his trenchcoat. A piece of him cries out at that, the trenchcoat is the single connection he has to home, to familiarity. It covers his back like a security blanket and he welcomes it, draping it across his shoulders.

It still stings, he admits to himself in the quiet of his room, when he rolls over to lie on his side on the cardboard mattress. From here he can see out into the gardens; from the wide open space that expanses off into the distance, to the garden patches and seating areas that coil round and out of sight. He sighs, curling in around himself. His eyes close, but his mind remains very much alert. He hopes that Dean’s alive, and absently wonders if he’s lying in a hospital bed, awake, or unconscious, with a new heart or a failing one. His nose scrunches. Wrapping himself tighter, he listens to the sounds of the rain against the window, and his own shaky exhale, praying that he can get out.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam was forcibly, by that he means four pairs of rough hands physically turned him around, growled a kind idjit in his ear and sent him on his way, made to go back to school. It’s probably for the best, he doesn’t actually want to fall back in his classes. Concentrating when your mind is fixated on your dying brother isn’t exactly easy, however.

He walks the corridor with an ease in his step, the many other children have already filtered out and he is left with a familiar empty shell. He remembers this, the times when he’d walk walls, with different scuffs and dirt streaks, and he’d get a call, from Dean’s voice somewhere along them, ‘Hey Sammy’.

Most big brothers, hell most siblings Sam has had contact with, are embarrassed by their younger sibling. Not him and Dean though, and he may not have been the conventional brother, Sam has always looked up to him. Some aspects of his personality, the drinking, sexual relationships maybe not, but if he could grow up to be like anyone it would be Dean. Who of course, wanted nothing more than to be a mans-man in the same way as Dad. Sam’s beginning to see a pattern here.

Dean had come out of surgery during the night. That’s the really good news. It was a success! The bad news, because really, being a Winchester doesn’t come without it, is he has fallen back into a coma. His heart, and body, has suffered a lot of stress and it is not uncommon for it to shut down in order to cope. (And yeah, Sam knows that one a little too well). They had said it was not all bad though. Something about monitoring how his heart works and if it will be rejected. Sam swallows. In which case, Dean will die.

“Hey Sam!” A high pitched voice breaks through the cobwebs of his thoughts.

He isn’t given much time to react before his bubbly blonde friend has her arms wrapped around him, giggling as he lifts her into the air. By the time Dean wakes up, he reckons he will be stronger than him.

“Hey Jess,” he smiles, gently, releasing her slowly. He loves Jess. Likes her, not love, he likes her a lot. They haven’t shared nearly enough gross staring contests and emotional pining for love. His mind takes a swift turn, he still doesn’t know where Cas is; Sam’s stopped coming to school too.

“Sam,” Her voice wavers, soft fingers brushing against the side of his face.

He still has his arms around her, and he lets go quickly, smiling bashful. Dean would tease the hell out of him for the blush he can feel burning his cheeks.

“You look like you need ice cream. We’re going for ice cream.” She decides, dragging him by the arm.

Huffing, he doesn’t bother try to tell her no. Jess is doing the thing that he falls into every single time, it’s her ploy and it never fails. He feels whipped and he’s not even old yet. They walk, arms linked because Jess had insisted so even though his face is probably an impressive shade of red now. It’s not a secret that he likes her, but she’s one of the prettiest girls in his year, loads of boys are interested in her.

“Oh hey guys,” Charlie says, stepping out from a classroom just as they pass.

Sam narrows his eyes suspiciously. This is starting to feel like an intervention, it’s all too convenient.

“We’re going to get ice cream, you want some?” Jess asks, leaning forward to offer her free arm.

Snorting, Charlie links up. “As if I’d miss ice cream with you guys.”

They’re not even out of the main doors and another person shouts from behind.

“Hey, hey guys wait up.”

Turning to look behind them, Sam sees Kevin running up the hall, Jody pulling up the rear, their bags falling from their shoulders. A sweet date with Jess has turned into an outing that Sam knows has been planned because Jody, bless her for being the kindest person ever, cannot keep a secret. Her smile gives it away in all honesty.

“Thanks for this guys.” He says, small compared to the big personalities that have surrounded him.

A chorus of ‘whaaaaat?’, ‘what are you thanking us for?’ and ‘shut up you’ follow. The 5 of them, in a line walk out of school; Dean’s on the mend, hopefully, Dad seems equal parts more and less tense, and he has awesome friends. Stepping out of the school gates, laughing and joking away, he almost forgets that he’s not normal. In the midst of his jest, he nearly misses the distinct feeling of eyes watching him.

Their group has disbanded, to walk safely along the curb. Jess maintains a connection with him and, gratefully, he squeezes her hand and gives a tight lipped smile. He throws one last look over his shoulder.

A black car he recognizes pulls away.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas eats his food deliberately, taking measured bites from the tasteless bowl of porridge. It might as well be molecules, the flavour is so bland. He hardly thinks that having flavour in their food is going to sway their religious beliefs, but then he isn’t going to draw attention to himself by pointing this out.

He finishes his food, even despite his precaution, quickly, returning to his seat to wait for the others on his table to finish too. There are rules about everything, manners that have to be learnt and behaviours that have to be taught. Church is something he welcomes, reaffirming his faith and he takes comfort in the simplicity of it. He nods respectfully to the nuns on the door way, and makes for the male bathroom.

Everyone else is heading to lessons, so he is alone. The cliché of his plan is an idea he got from a movie Dean had showed him – ‘The Great Escape’ is a classic, apparently. At any rate, his room is too high to climb out of and the most opportune moment for him to make a run for it is during lesson times. Most of the teachers will be giving lectures or private tuition, the priests and nuns have their own duties and he won’t have to deal with a fellow student alerting them.

He closes the stall door and flicks the latch. Looking up at the stained glass window, he sucks in a breath in an attempt to make himself as small as possible. Even if it was Sam trying to fit through the gap, it would still be pushing the physical limit. He has to try. He lowers the toilet seat and stands on top, unlatching the window and pushing out to the maximum capacity.

Cas lifts himself up, pulling his arms and head through the gap. The small frame chafes against his upper torso and he cringes at the small tear he hears in the fabric of his coat. Shimmying himself, he manages to wiggle forward. He grasps for purchase against the outer wall, fresh air filling his senses. Vigorously, he kicks up with his legs and swings out with his arms until the brief sensation of flying hits him. The mud of a flowerbed that runs a moat around the house breaks his fall. He is apologetically grateful for the crushed heads of poppies and lavender.

He stands slowly, blinking into the natural light. His attention is cast down, the red gash pooling liquid across his palm. Cas clenches his fist; he winces in pain. The sooner he gets away, the sooner he can get to Dean. Taking his belt from the loops of his coat, he wraps it tightly around his throbbing palm and takes off on a brisk run.

There may be shouts behind him, he’s not sure. A sense of freedom washes over him and he cuts all ties with going back. He dashes through those beautiful flowers, reds and blues and yellows flashing him on. He jumps the fence, stumbling due to his hand before carrying on.

Green fills his vision. It’s wide open space, spreading out in every direction like a never-ending orbit. He pumps his legs, muscles protesting at the sudden rushes of movement. He’s reaching a crevasse, a change in the geology of the land. His heart screams, lungs burning with every cold inhale of desperate breath.

Panting, he lurches to a stop. He rests his hands on his hips, swallowing even though his throat is bone dry. He looks around frantically, the shadowy looming figure of the house fairly distant behind him and the rough edge of the hill it stands on falling around. There’s no way out. This house is isolated to the extreme extent of  _actual seclusion_.

The shouts are louder, definite, and he makes a split decision. Trees line the base of the hill, woodland extending its barked hand no doubt leading him to civilisation. He just needs a phone. All he wants is to check on his family, to see how Sam is and Gabriel; to check on Dean and Sam.

Those flimsy plimsolls are wholly inadequate for this kind of activity. He’s half running, practically falling down the knoll, mud caking his sides and fingers in his attempts to steady himself.

He shall have to stop soon, lest he pass out from lack of oxygen. It has been a very long time since he’s ran like this, or anything similar to this kind of intensity. His lungs and calves are feeling the effects. He’s about to breach the first line of trees when he hears it. Piercing, menacing,  _calling_  to him.

A howl.

Fear replaces the exhaustion in his brain and he momentarily freezes. He inhales uneven gulps of breath, his exhale misting into white of the early morning air. Eyes wide, he takes once more to the trees, jumping logs and running through the dense brush.

Shadows dance across the ground, shades of green cameo on the brown twigs and dirt. He can’t take this pace anymore and, reluctantly, he yields to the overstretched muscles and scorch of his lungs. He stands silent. The quiet of his breathing as it evens out is matched with the squawks and rustle of departing birds. A twig snaps; his attention is immediately drawn in that direction, his breath hitches, heart races, and for a moment he is acutely aware of everything that moves, shakes, changes.

There’s another snap. It’s not a twig.

Whirling round, Cas turns in time to catch the jaws of the beast as he is thrown into the dirt. He wrestles it’s snarling mouth, almost choking on its sulphurous breath. The thing weighs an unhealthy amount, pinning him down, without purchase in the soft earth.

“Help! Somebody-” he shouts, voice cracking in a scream that is punched out of his lungs by a great paw.

“Unfortunately for you mate, no one can hear you,” A man chuckles, “I could scream with you, if you think it would help?”

Cas makes a choked sound, the dribble and teeth snapping ever closer to his face.

“J-Just get it off me.” He growls, thrusting his fatigued limbs up with the rest of his dwindling might, dislodging the creature from his chest.

It snarls, claws racking in the wet undergrowth with an angry squelch.

“Easy Juliet, let Daddy handle this,” He coos, patting the rabid beast on the head affectionately and side eyeing Castiel, who has jumped to his feet for a better vantage point. The man looks around them, then to the house, and back at Castiel, a wide smile on his lips, “Not bad for your first time. Probably a record in our standards.”

Cas shivers, cold mud hanging on his skin. The man, in stark comparison to Castiel, is wearing a suit, humorously, and has a thick English accent. Or at least, his accent stands out.

“The names Fergus,” He says, slyly from the side of his mouth, sticking his hand out to Castiel which he plainly stares at, “But the people here call me Crowley.”

Juliet puffs, stretching her mouth wide open in a way that Cas is mesmerised into watching. Ever the un-offended, Crowley raises his eyebrows and drops his hand.

“Well no use standing out here all day, kid.”

Crowley strides back first, Juliet apparently waiting for Cas to follow. He can feel her cold nose at the base of his heels, ensuring he remains on the path. He’s not sure that Crowley would stop her from killing him, if she was so inclined to do so. Silently, the traipse through the trees, around bushes and over mounds of mud, and then the rising hill comes into view. Cas stops, Juliet barks once, twice, and his feet find themselves moving again.

“You should know, most people try this sort of thing at night.” Sighing, Crowley calls to him, slowing his movements to walk beside him as they begin the ascend. It is a lot steeper going up, than coming down, Cas notes mournfully.

“It would be foolish to attempt to leave a place I don’t know at a time when I cannot see.” He says cautiously, trying not to show now the pain of his legs and the ache in his side.

The man stops walking to regard him for a second.

“Touché.”

By the time they reach the top – after a few terse words and another gruelling silence eclipses them – Cas might as well be crawling along the floor. Suffice to say he won’t be trying  _that_  any time soon.

Metatron is waiting, tapping his foot impatiently on the front steps. His suit is unchanged in colour, like it comes vacuum packed and unfaltering while he moves. He dismisses Crowley, a small amount of hushed conversation going on between them before he directs Castiel to his room.

He doesn’t know whether he is going to be punished, and his weary eyes harden at the thought. He’d probably fall asleep during the punishment.

“You will shower and sleep. You will go to confession, and then we shall speak.”

And so, just like Crowley, he is dismissed with a towel in his hand and a fresh stack of clothes on his bed.

He moves around his room on automatic, scooping up the clean clothes and heads down the hall to the wash rooms. Each step pains him, plucking the strings of his tendons with different intensities. There are footsteps, he can hear them in the background of the fog that’s rested over his skull. Lifting his head, he catches sight of light brown eyes and bright red hair.

He clamps his eyes shut and wrings the cloth in his hand. No, he won’t allow himself to fall that far. He can’t, he mustn’t... Just a figment of your imagination Castiel, your subconscious attempting to comfort you. More shakily than before, he pulls down the handle to the showers. The door closes behind him with a loud clank.  


	17. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metatron and Crowley, the Dynamic Duo.
> 
> Cas could do with some good news, really.
> 
> Cas has a memory (in which Michael is 21, Gabe is 17, Balthy is 13, Sam is 2, Anna is 11 and Cas is 7)
> 
> Sam's friends are rad. And hey look it's Gabe too!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry! This took way longer than it should omg. Mistakes will be fixed.
> 
> There's 3 POV in here, a memory and a bunch of messed up stuff and even some lying assholes, so let me know if you get confused. Seriously, just boop your way to the comment box.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! ~ I'd love to hear what you think so far c: xo

Metatron wipes a hand wearily down his face, closing the door after himself from Castiel’s room.

Naomi Novak had paid, very generously, for Castiel to complete his studies at this school; they are one of the most prestigious in the whole country. The boy’s decision to study Melittology, bees of all things, had provided him with an obstacle. There is a bee farm, and keeper, not far from the remote location of the main building. However the man who runs has a rather annoying... Sting about him. He is almost always in a bad mood and, just like his bees, is easily provoked.

Those dealings are not on the forefront of his mind, though, right now he needs to quash this desire to run while it is in its foetus stage, before it grows, a cancerous tumour, and becomes a serious issue. He doesn’t like children. Especially when they decide to break the rules, drop out of line, try and run away. Life here is good, he should know, he made it so.

“Fergus,” He sighs, entering his office knowing the other man will be there.

He shuts the door, dropping down into his chair. There he begins to tap the pen on his desk, keeping his eyes locked with Crowley. Nothing gets past the Scotsman, his sharp eye and wit more than enough to monitor the grounds. Leaning back, he furrows his brow, waiting for the other man to speak. When Crowley is in one of his moods, nothing will occur without him deciding too. It’s an annoying trait, but he’s learned to deal with it. He’s seen what Crowley’s beloved Juliet can do – he has no desire to be on the receiving end.

“He won’t stop, you know,” Crowley drawls finally, shifting himself to the edge of the chair and moving close to lean against the desk, “He is concerned; about his family, about his boy toy.”

Groaning, Metatron rises from the chair and begins to pace.

“I don’t understand. He’s got everything here,” He walks to the full length mirror, smiling at his own devious expression as his eyes once again catch his groundkeepers, “But you have a plan.”

The man shrugs, suavely. “I may have given it some thought.”

“Oh?” He says, crossing the room to the bookcase that towers over in the far corner. It is almost overflowing with books and scripture; he does love surrounding himself by words.

“You give the kid what he wants.” Simply put, Crowley begins to fiddle with the numerous pens, scribbling on a piece of spare paper left on his desk.

“I do not see how that is a solution. Mrs Novak has made it perfectly clear-“ He says, running the tips of his fingers along the spines of the books.

Crowley frowns in concentration at the page, while he continues to search the book case for his annotated first testament. The education they provide here is neither exclusive nor compulsory - they strive to provide for their students needs. If that means hiring someone for specific tuition then it will be done. Although he does not teach personally, due to the students disdain for him and strange predilection for Crowley, religious studies has always left him infatuated with literature and scripture. Finding what he’s looking for his pivots, running his palms over the cover and remembering each crevasse of knowledge. He stops musing about the tattered book in his hands and turns back to Crowley.

“Don’t be such a square,” He scrunches his face in disgust, waving his free hand dismissively, “You let him call his brothers, ease his tension. And then you call in a favour from Michael. All you need to do, my dear good man, is get him to believe. Castiel gets his closure, and you get the good student he always was.”

The rift between his brows continues to grow.

“Closure on what?”

He drops the book with a meek puff off dust right next to where Crowley is writing, stalking irritably around the corner of the desk and plonking into the chair. Pulling himself into the desk properly, he cranes his head back as Crowley stands.

“Come now, is it really that obscure?” He smiles, patronizingly, and holds out the piece of paper he was scribbling on. Metatron snatches it from his grasp, pointedly ignoring his smug smile.

Eyes widening, he nods his head. “You do realise this is why you’re going to Hell, Fergus Crowley.”

Rolling his eyes, he chuckles. “Yeah, have a chat with the big guy will you, I’m sure you can absolve for my sins.”

Crowley takes his leave, the door shutting barely audible over the sounds of cogs whirring in his mind. His eyes run over the piece of paper, again and again. It’s seems crazy, immoral, _wrong_... Just so it happens, he knows it will work.

 

* * *

 

 

Slowly, Cas makes his way to the small chapel that is linked to the side of the school building. The corridor that connects them is new, vastly so in comparison to the old beams and stone walls of both the house and the church. His legs shake from taking the stairs _down_ , he doesn’t have any idea on how he’s going to get back up them. Maybe they’ll let him lie on the floor somewhere. Hope is worth fooling himself for, right now.

Inside is simplistic, the stones from the walls flickering in shades of grey and brown under the scrutiny of candle light. There are always candles burning, giving the room the distinct smell of wax and smoke. He inhales, letting the scent calm him as he takes a seat to wait for a booth to become free.

Confession is mandatory; sinning is a part of the human condition, unfortunately, it seems a pronounced design flaw.

Lost in reflection, and the hard cushion under his aching glutes, his finds time drip away and his thoughts come to nothing. The wooden box shaped stand closes around him, the wood ornately carved with Jesus’ hanging figure with ‘Deus, dimitte peccata mea’ written above.

“Forgive me father, I have sinned.” Cas starts, voice low and hoarse, still recovering from the harsh air whipping into the back of his lungs.

His eyes never leave Jesus’ hung figure, morbid, pained, and he died for what? For greed and guilt and corruption and hatred to breed and grow, until his death was no more than a passage in an old book. He sees nothing so worth saving here. Humans, as a race, cannot accept themselves for who they are, and God help them should they try to accept and support each other. They’re like spirit on a flame, destined to go up in a flash of something bright, something brilliant; only to be extinguished leaving a burn mark – a gravestone – as the only proof two things so volatile ever met.

“It has been 2 days since I last came to confession.” He admits, and does actually consider the wrong in his actions. He had not prayed, only for Dean to be alive. There is no selflessness in his actions, because he has not the same faith that he had before. It feels, different. Sitting in these walls, with a holy man across a thin barrier, it’s not sacred anymore, he doesn’t believe like he used to.

There is no noise from the box beside him; he almost appreciates the anonymity of it.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.” He repeats, with more force this time. Balling his fists in his lap, Cas breathes out, leaning on his knees and linking his fingers. “I let myself fall for someone I shouldn’t. I put my faith in him, and he lied father. He _lied_.” Cas holds back a cry, he hasn’t cried properly for a long time. “And I waste every prayer, and I hope he’s ok. What’s the point in faith now? I never felt more alive, more believing, than with him. He gave me strength, the one I was taught comes from within. Forgive me father, I don’t know what to do.

I know that I love him...

I think he loves me too.

So forgive me father, I can’t make it stop. I’m sorry it’s not good enough, but-“

“Child.” A voice says, a lot rougher than he imagined for any of the priests to be.

He blinks a few times, moisture lining his eyes. It has been, perhaps too long, since the last time he cried.

“Love is not a sin, the Lord knows that. People who hate on others, are the sinners. Please do not believe that this is punishment for something so pure, so innocent in God’s eyes.”

Cas stifles a surprised breath, a strangled half-noise falling brokenly from his lips.

“If your love for this boy is all you have come to confess, you may leave.”

He opens and shuts his mouth a few times.

“Thank you, Father.”

Abruptly, he stands and exits the confessional. Words follow him out, but he only hears a hazy version in the back of his mind. His steps are uncharacteristically slow, the pain of his legs ending up a numb second to the twinge in his heart.

 _And I absolve you of your sins,_  
in the name of the Father, and of the Son,   
and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

“Amen.” He whispers, walking past his fellow students in a daze to his room.

The call for dinner does not rouse him, and Metatron does not make his planned return. Relief should be flooding his veins, though all he can feel is a shaken kind of empty; undecipherable, incurable, hollow... Faith should have filled that hole, entirely, and he should not be experiencing this. He stays collapsed on his bed and closes his eyes. Everything will be different tomorrow, he tells himself. If he says it enough times, there’s a chance he can trick himself long enough to believe it.

 

He is called to Metatron’s office before the shout for breakfast sounds the next morning. His hair is a mess, no change there, his heart is still heavy and there is a specific roll of anxious expectation in his gut. This conversation is unpredictable; things used to be easy.

Knocking on the door, he waits to be told to enter.

“Come in.”

He shuts the door, the slam loud and mindless, shocking Metatron into looking up.

“Please sit, Castiel.”

The chair is pulled out in front of him and falls gratefully into the softness. He runs a hand through his unruly hair. Tapping keys fill the sound of the room, Metatron’s focus is on the typewriter (who even has a typewriter anymore?!) instead of him. Cas waits silently. The desk is covered in papers and pens and books; right on the edge closest to him is a mobile phone. He swallows, because the temptation to take it and run is working through his muscles, his fingers twitching against the chairs arm rest.

“You should call home.” Metatron says finally, and Castiel’s head snaps up in surprise.

He stares at the man suspiciously, hands not moving towards the phone but rather locked in place.

“Come now Castiel, I haven’t got all day.” He looks up over his glasses and smiles. His smiles are false and disturbing.

Cas reaches out slowly, half expecting the phone to grow fangs and attack him. This is all too straightforward. Why would he be letting him contact home when he had spent so long preventing it?

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Castiel.” His voice has lost some of its warmth, the icy overbearing manner returning.

“There are no horses here.” He says, seriously, and takes the small piece of plastic into his palm.

He has every important number memorised, burned into the inner walls of his skull. Pressing the keys rapidly, he puts the phone to his ear and bites his lip nervously. He had chosen to call Gabriel, because he’s not absolutely convinced if he called home that his mother wouldn’t hang up on him. The dialling tone drones on and on, and his anxiousness rises with it.

“Y’ello.” A spritely voice chimes and Cas exhales loud enough that he can hear Gabe huff irritation in response. “Look buddy, I may be into some kinky shit but your heavy breathing doesn’t reach the lis-“

“Gabriel,” Cas states, the swell of affection for his older brother – the calm he takes from his voice as he clutches the phone like a holy man to a cross – replaced with fond annoyance.

“Cassie?” He hears rustling in the background, “Shit Cas, what’s going on, where the hell even are you?”

Cas glances tensely to Metatron, who is pretending not to be listening. There’s a chance he could have the phone taken off him if he tells the truth; his eyes harden at the thought of Sam and Gabe not knowing where he is. That’s cold even for Michael.

“It is not of import, how is Sam and Sam and Dean?” He asks instead, for that’s really what he cares about after all.

The scrunch of Gabriel’s face is almost loud enough to be heard through the phone.

“What do you- Cassie it’s of the utmost importance,” His brother sighs, “Sam’s fine, he’s being homeschooled though. Kid doesn’t seem to mind too much. I have no clue how Samsquatch and Deano are doing. It’s all been a bit crazy without you kiddo.”

“Need I remind you that I am not a child, Gabriel? I’m at school; I’m going to study the bees.”

It’s easier for him to talk about himself, about this, than to show his inward collapse of vital organs. He _still_ doesn’t know how Dean is, if he is alive or not. Sam is being punished for his actions and Dean’s Sam could be coping the complete wrong way. They are his friends, he’s supposed to look after the friends he has. He always promised himself to look after his little brother and all he’s done is made things worse for him.

“Bees,” Gabe groans, “The country air has gotten to you! Don’t worry little bro, I’m working on a way of busting you out... Where did you say you were again?”

“I didn’t say,” Cas replies coolly, picking at the arm of his chair and fraying a strand of the stitching. “And I cannot. Just please, look after Sam, and the Winchesters. Goodbye, brother.”

“Hey Cas wai-“

He swallows, staring blankly at the phone in his hand. Detachedly, he places it back on the table and rises from his seat.

“That will be all for now, Castiel.”

He knows it’s more of a pleasantry than anything more, it’s said as he’s almost out of the door. The piece of him that wants to go home protests the faith he gulps down, that he should be the one checking on them not Gabe. He should not have been that callous in his goodbye, Gabriel said he wanted to help him. Doesn’t he want to be rescued?

He’s moving down the corridor, on the way to the breakfast hall when he sees her again. There’s a fragility in his soul and seeing her face widens it, a notch turning into a crack. A crack forcing open to a deep valley. And he’s flying into it, head first. The first sob that breaks out of him has him stumbling, the second makes his eyes burn. For the first time since father left, since he lost his faith, Castiel breaks down and he cries. He’s not sure what happens next; brown eyes drowned in sympathy, a warm white palm cradles his cheek, the smell of grass and cleanliness washes over him-

 

_Running, Castiel feels the long grass sift between his fingers, towers of corn and maize standing over him._

_“You can’t run forever Cassie,” Balthy laughs, the sound of his chugging footsteps rustling through the crops._

_The sun blazes down on them, warmth, comfort, home, as 4 of the Novak siblings chase each other into the fields behind their large house. They love it here, in the midst of God’s greatest creation, experiencing freedom in its untainted form._

_Castiel pants, reaching the flattened down crop circle they had made a few days ago. He falls down into it, making crop angels with his arms. As his breathing calms, he reaches up to trace the path of a passing bee, only to see his brother’s face leaning over him from behind. Squawking, he jumps to his feet._

_Gabriel is laughing, full bodied, with little Sam on his shoulders tapping his head happily. He scrunches up his nose, pouting at his brother for scaring him. Sam looks up, his chubby hands making grabby motions in Gabe’s sandy hair, as he points at Cas and his too long trenchcoat. It’s covered in bits of corn and grass, and come to think of it mother has been insisting on washing it for a while now._

_“Yeah alright Sam-my-man,” Gabe says, wincing at a particularly harsh tug, “You wanna go cheer Cassie up.”_

_Striding over, Gabe sways and bobs, causing Sam to gurgle in joy and begin laughing again. Castiel does not think he has heard a sound so wonderful than his little brother’s laugh. It’s a chortle, a high pitched squeal of uninhibited bliss._

_“My dear brothers, you’ll never guess who I’ve found,” Balthy’s voice waves in with the wind through the brush surrounding them._

_Gabe dramatically turns, mocking his brother, “I wonder who it could be...?” He looks up at Sam, to ask him, but he’s far too fascinated with the view and the sounds and the colours._

_Cas, on the other hand, beams brightly. He knows who it is, he_ knows _. He hasn’t seen his sister in far too long! In hindsight, two days isn’t particularly long, however, it is enough time that he has felt and experienced her absence._

_He dashes in the direction he thought he heard Balthy come from, bolting through the stems of green and yellow. However after a few seconds, he spins round, lost, confused. He was sure they were here._

_“Anna? Balthy?” He calls, heart rate climbing with each second he remains alone. He may never make it back to the house; he’s far too short to see over the harvest. “Gabe?”_

_“Castiel?” A sweet girl’s voice calls back, concerned, “Castiel where are you?”_

_His top lips trembles, eyes searching for her but he can’t see her!_

_“A-Anna? Gabe, Balthy?”_

_He turns again, the sun doesn’t look as bright, there’s shade hanging over him. Oh,_ oh, _he’s afraid. Fear in itself is not his favourite emotion._

_Suddenly, bright flower print is in his face, a soft skirt, and warm arms are curling around his shaking body. He hadn’t even realised. Anna smells of freshly cut grass and baked cakes, with the underlying scent of the washing detergent mother uses._

_“Shh Castiel, it’s ok, we’re here see?” She pulls back to reveal Gabe’s goofy grin, Sam’s concerned baby face and Balthy’s teasing smile._

_“I thought you’d left me,” He mumbles, burying his flushed cheeks into the fabric to hide his embarrassment._

_“Come on Cassie, we’d never do that.” Balthy says, leading them with his fake wooden sword back to the row where it is easier to walk down._

_“Yeah!” Gabe shouts, jostling Sam, “Us Novak’s have got to stick together right, Sammy?”_

_Cooing in agreement, Sam begins to tug excitedly on Gabe’s hair again._

_“Looks like Sam’s seen someone,” Anna says, her hand encasing Cas’ own as he wipes the remnants of his tears and follows behind._

_“Mickeeeeeey!” The three of them (and a garbled noise) shout, the figure of their brother emerging from the gap between the trees that leads back to the house. His head is hanging, shoulders pulled down by an invisible force. Cas tilts his head, trying to see past Anna, and Balthy, and Gabriel, who are all much taller than him and have too many legs for him to see._

_His head raises at their traditional outburst, posture squaring, turning ridged under their gaze._

_They reach each other, and Sam immediately demands to be transferred from Gabriel to Michael, which is understandable given that Sam has an infatuation with being tall and Michael is taller than Gabe._

_But, like never before, Michael declines the outstretched hand. Sam grumbles, the start of tears forming in his eyes. Scowling at Michael, Gabe swoops him round to hold Sam under the armpits and wiggle him in the air. He mouths ‘what the hell Mike’ to his brother, glad to have averted a Sam sized meltdown. Sam has got a set of lungs on him, Cas remembers, wincing slightly from the thought._

_“Michael,” Gabe returns Sam to his shoulders and the 4 of them now face their older brother, the same way a soldier would their commanding officer. “What’s wrong bro?”_

_The gentle blue-grey of Michael’s eyes has gone, changed, to a steely metal. It’s hard, angry, sharp. Castiel swallows, he’s been on the receiving end of that look before, though the glint never usually stays this long._

_“It’s Dad...”_

_Anna steps forward, dropping Castiel’s hand. Balthy and Gabe share a look and Balthy wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. He allows himself to be moved closer, watching his brother’s curiously as Gabe lowers Sam and holds him close. He plays with him, booping his nose, and then looks up to meet his brother’s brooding silence._

_“What about him?”_

_Sternly clearing his throat, Michael’s Adams apple bobs. Cas counts the movement, wide eyes waiting to hear about their father._

_“He’s gone.”_

_Michael delivers the blow, nodding once, and turns back the way he came._

_The Novak children don’t return to the fields anymore. The fields feel empty without the presence of their Dad. The fields..._

 

Castiel, when he awakens, assumes that it was all a dream. A few hours had passed since he collapsed and he takes this time to watch the cracks on his ceiling. He tells himself that it was a dream, for there is not any possibility of her being there being real.

Because Anael Poppy Novak died on November 7th 2008.

The funeral was not fancy, just the 4 remaining Novak siblings, their mother and a priest, standing over a freshly dug patch of dirt. Michael doesn’t cry, he’s accustomed himself not to feel any sort of emotion anymore. His charm is exclusively extended to his job. Gabriel pretends he is not upset; he cracks some dumb joke about one of the angels getting her grace back and going to heaven.

Needless to say, it was met by a tough crowd.

Balthazar stared at the wooden cross, eyes crinkling at the corners where unshed tears collect. He blinks, the moisture running off his cheek. Holding Balthazar’s hand and Sam’s, Castiel stands between a big brother and a small one too. He doesn’t cry, though, he finds he doesn’t not have the capacity to. Anna had so many plans, so many dreams; she was only 16. How could she just... Disappear like that?

The coffin they buried was empty.

He spent 6 years mourning a vacant box.

 

The next time he meets Metatron in his office, not many days after the first, will be the last for a long time. He knocks, waits, enters, sits, and repeats their exact performance as the time before. He hadn’t asked to call home, or Gabriel, or anyone. There’s a part of his sanity that he would like to keep intact, and what’s the point in making the pain any worse. He is enjoying himself, and the sooner he gets his education over with the sooner he can leave.

Metatron’s face is grim.

“Castiel,” He says, sighing sadly, “I need you to sit down.”

He frowns but complies, dropping into the chair.

The desk is clear, no papers, nothing, other than the typewriter, and a single brown envelope. It is the most ominous 9x13 inch object he has ever seen.

“I know that the Winchester boy meant a lot to you, so I want you to know that I hold my deepest sympathies for you.”

Cas nearly chokes on his own tongue.

“What?” He asks brokenly, eyes never leaving that opened packet on the desk.

“Dean Winchester, died last night after an unsuccessful heart transplant operation. I’m sorry.”

“No!” Exclaiming, Cas stands from his chair, “No.” He looks away, heaving a deep breath. “I don’t believe you.”

Without a word, Metatron slides the envelope across the desk. The scratch of paper on wood, the hitch where the sticky edge gets caught, takes forever to reach him. Bile rises in his throat, tears prick his eyes but he stamps it down. He forces himself to take the packet, opening it with shaky hands.

“I’ll give you a moment.” Metatron stands and leaves, the whine of a door hinge marking his exit.

He spreads the papers out on the desk, reading the words and not taking any of it in. There’s a death certificate, hospital records and even _pictures_. Dean’s lifeless body. His boyfriend, his...

Castiel throws up on that elaborately fabricated rug, the meagre porridge he’d eaten that morning splashing putridly on the ground. He staggers out of the room, in the direction of the toilet. He’s going to pass out. And throw up. A tear breaks free and he knows he’s lost all hope of holding it in. 

He trips into someone, and mumbles an apology as he passes.

“Oh Castiel.”

_Not that voice._

He wrings his hands in his hair, falling to his knees on the hard concrete floor. _She’s dead_ , he repeats over and over and over-

A warm hand touches his cheek, and he loathes himself for leaning into it. He squeezes his eyes shut, suffocating his snivels in the folds of his trenchcoat. The hand runs through his hair, _just like she used to_.

“You’re not real,” He whispers.

Hiccupping, he grabs his knees tighter. He has no idea where he is, how close he is to his room and to seclusion. Logically, he knows that Anna is dead. Dead like Dean. He doesn’t know how much more his mind can take. It’s ok to pretend right, he can allow himself this. He won’t be so alone with Anna there.

“Baby brother, it’ll be ok. I’m here. We’re family, Castiel.” She slides down beside him; her arms holding him close until his crying dies out.

 

At the end of the first week, he forgets why he wanted to run away; who he was running to see.

By the end of the second week, he has started his course in Melittology.

Three weeks later, Castiel no longer questions whether Anna is a figment of his imagination and accepts her company gladly. He doesn't worry about his family, they'll be ok. He'll disappear...

Just... Like... Anna. 

 

* * *

 

Sam found out that Charlie, being the genius that she is, had hacked the school’s files and read the ‘restricted’ aspects and all, therefore discovering Dean's condition. She's very offended Dean didn't tell her, and had wordlessly hugged Sam close. 

Since then, they (by ‘they’ he means loosely his group of friends) have made it their mission to fill his spare time with activities. He’ll go to school, stay with Dean till visiting hours close and is then roped into something ridiculous before he heads back to Bobby’s.

Even John’s taken to working at the Roadhouse, one of the main meeting points for them because it’s really all his friends can afford. He appreciates the effort, because he’d probably be going out of his mind without them.

Dean’s condition is the same, no better and no worse. He’s not dead but it's not looking like he’s going to wake up. It’s an infuriating waiting game. He won’t give up on his big brother though, not now not ever. He won’t let them turn off the machines. He can’t.

It’s on another one of those group outings he spoke of – to the Roadhouse because Jo has to work and they get free food, which hello yes – that he’s currently sitting at. The only difference this time is that Gabe has more or less (basically more) kidnapped Sam while his mom was out and dragged him along too.

Turns out that Sam is being homeschooled, which sucks. On top of Cas being sent to a boarding school, news to the youngest Winchester, Sam was being secluded from his friends. He hopes Gabe can steal him away some time again, anything to stop Sam from going that alone.

The Roadhouse isn’t that busy yet, so Jo is sitting at the table with them and Gabe is cracking all kinds of jokes. Sam can tell it’s his default mode, because there is something glaringly obvious not right about the way he’s acting.

It’s the same with John.

None of it is worth pretending about, it’s the major elephant in the room. John did something bad and is trying to hide what it is. Plus they’re all freaking out about Dean, maybe internally, because a question they’re being forced to ask themselves is:

_What if he never wakes up?_

Sam shudders at the thought.

Anyway, Gabriel is exhibiting example a) of ‘shit is going down but I’m doing my best to pretend it isn’t so I don’t have to worry about it’.

He studies Gabe, until the older man looks up and cocks an eyebrow. Gabe then proceeds to shove his face full of fries and kind of glare at Sam but not really.

Taking a bite of his burger, Sam tunes into the conversation that Charlie and Jody are having about the problem with first person shooters, while Jess, Ash and Sam discuss the best hair styles throughout the ages.

Shaking his head to himself, Sam chuckles.

He is cut off from his next bite and input in the conversation as they all chant ‘no no no’ to Ash’s idea of getting himself a mullet. His ring tone sounds and he stops laughing at Ash, with Jess’ long hair draped over his own, the bright red tinting her cheeks, to answer.

“Sammy,” His Dad sucks in an uneven breath.

“Dad? Is everything-” Sam pushes out of the booth and holds the phone to his ear with such force that it might bruise.

“It’s Dean bud,” He can hear the relief now, “Dean’s awake.”


	18. Whose Heart Is On Your Sleeve?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean wakes up. 
> 
> A memory.
> 
> Dean isn't really dealing well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAVE SOME SAD!SICK!HURT!DEAN  
> This is kind of only half the chapter I had planned, there might have been juxtaposition against what's going on with Cas, but now you'll just have to wait for my update on Tuesday (TO CELEBRATE S10 *screaming*)
> 
> Apologies for mistakes guys. Thank you to every single one of you who comments, I love you all so much! Y'all the guys who keep me writing c:

He is suddenly very aware of the feeling of mist being removed from his vision. It’s as though someone has been covering his eyes with their palm and has moved it away; that absolute blackness becoming a lighter shade of dark. For a moment, he pretends and holds against the flickering of his eyelids. Maybe he doesn’t want to go back. Maybe he doesn’t want to have to fight anymore.

That theory doesn’t work for long, though, and he squints his eyes open gradually. Licking his lips, he feels the dry chapped skin beneath his tongue. He’s awake for about 3 seconds before his brain gives up again and he folds back under consciousness.

 

The next time his eyes flicker, it’s light out. He scans the room, groggily, in search of someone, anyone. He’s never felt so alone, and he’s spent half of his life with a brother too young to speak in a shabby motel room trying to stay safe until Dad got back.

“Hello?” He rasps, searching his room for any signs of movement or life.

The window allows the light from the sun shine in, the droplets of rain refracting the beams across the room. He bites his lip to stop the scream from working its way out of his lungs.

Something does _not_ feel right.

The room he’s in is empty, save for the machines beeping continuously beside him and the visiting chairs pulled close to his side. It smells kind of like old alcohol and car oil; so he knows Bobby and John have been here. That calms him slightly, but clearly not enough. He takes a deep breath, because he’s very much aware of those beeps beginning to climb and his heart-

 _His_ heart?

Trying desperately to sit up, he attempts to look down at his chest. A great white bandage is wrapped around his torso (really how he didn’t notice it before is a mystery) and his fingers shakily pick at the dressing. Pretty soon he’s clawing at it, his blunt fingernails frantically breaching the layers.

Does he even get to call it ‘his heart’ anymore? Someone died to save his life. What the actual fuck. That’s too much. He can’t live up to that. It doesn’t even beat the same, he thinks hysterically.

“Dean?” A woman’s voice asks.

In a second of _real_ delirium, he thinks for a fraction of a second that it’s Mary. Somewhere in the background of his tripping mind, a broken record player skipping over and over, he can hear the beeping reaching threatening levels. This is about the time his heart would clench, the panic seeping through the ridges in his bones, and it isn’t there. Pain, most definitely is making itself known, but not like before. This barely crosses a 6 on his scale.

“Dean sweetie,” A nurses voice. He recognises it. _Lisa_. “Can you look at me?”

His eyes had been doing an impressive impression of someone possessed in the Exorcist or something, rolling back into his skull. He gasps, the pain and mental torture crashing down all at the same time. It’s too much, he can’t do it.

“I don’t want to have to sedate you,” Her small warm palm grips his, “Please Dean, can you calm down?”

 _No_. He cries angrily, and he feels the teardrop trickle out of the corner of his eye. He can’t calm down. There’s nothing he wants to do more than to curl up under a blanket of hard drugs and forget that he has someone else’s organ in his chest. A sob brakes free. He can’t calm down because all he wants is his Mom’s arms around him one more time, so that he can tell her that he loves her one more time. He wants to hear Cas’ god damn voice, that stupid, stupid kid he fell in love with.

“Dean?” She asks concerned; he knows why. The sob he was choking on cuts off unexpectedly.

He’s useless at this sort of thing. This isn’t what he was made for. Blinking rapidly, he compels his eyes with all his might to meet hers. She tilts her head at him, lopsided. Like Cas. He swallows.

He shouldn’t think about Cas. If he’s even around anymore. Are they going out still?

“Hey Lis,” He croaks, as cocksure as he can force it given his current position.

She exhales, relieved, and brushes a hand through his hair gently. Then she fixes his bandage, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

“You’ve been giving everyone a right scare you know that?” Moving on to check his charts, she purses her lips, “When you got injured and went under, Dean.” Her breath hitches, and she shakes her head. “I’m going to call your Dad, let him know you’re awake. Can I get you anything before then?”

He thinks he shakes his head. Possibly, his eyelids droop shut. Emotions are exhausting. He doesn’t remember being injured? The last thing he thinks, exclusively from his ‘what even is my life’ list, is what did Dad do to make this happen?

 

Someone’s holding his hand. That’s the first thing he notices when his eyes open for the third time. It feels surreal, being awake, a heart that works pumping in his chest. He squeezes the hand back, stretching his arm out. His whole body is lead in the bed, stiff from not moving. Don’t get him started on the thing about peeing. It does _not_ feel good to have that catheter up there.

He manages to get his eyes and brain to sync up and he tries his best to smile, because Sammy’s there, all wide eyes and floppy brown hair. There are bags, dark circles clinging to his little brother’s anxious expression, and Dean has to momentarily stop trying to swallow the nausea down.

Sam’s not looking at him. Wincing, Dean turns his head to follow Sam’s gaze. He sees John, staring out the window like some wistful old man. He resists the urge to scoff, what is this going to be, a last supper speech?

“Hey Sammy,” He says finally, closing those thoughts away into a deep and far away box.

“Dean!” Sam seems surprised, happy and concerned all at once. He drops his hand and wraps his arms awkwardly around Dean’s tubes and neck.

“Alright, alright.” He inhales and mutters an added, “Bitch.”

Bitchface in place, Sam pulls away.

“Jerk.”

“Hey Dean,” His Dad says uncertainly.

Dean’s attention snaps from smiling at his brother to searching his Dad’s eyes. John won’t meet his eyes. Incredulously, Dean bites the side of his tongue to stop himself from blurting an insult or worse start crying.

“Dad,” He manages, unevenly.

There’s a few seconds when no one says anything, Sam’s back to holding his hand and staring at their Dad, imploring him with his eyes. Dean deflates in a single movement, the steady and strong beat of his heart still sounding weird to his ears. His eyes close and a frown forms at the ridge of his forehead.

He wants to get out of here.

“When can I leave?” Sighing, Dean cracks one eye open a bit. Sam shoots him a weary glance and Dean wishes he could eradicate that from ever being on his brother’s face.

“A few days,” Sam says when Dad fails to pipe up.

John can’t even bear to look at him; Dean wonders if his continued existence will be worth the cost of everyone he loves. He wants to ask where Cas is, but the tension in the room is already ridiculous.

“Go back to sleep Dean, we’ll visit you when you’re awake again.” He feels a palm clasp around his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

Despite the reassurance lying under the words, Dean would like to protest. He considers it forever in his heart, ha, since he’s been awake.

Darkness descends on him, without his consent. It feels lonely.

 

He is released from the hospital a week later. A full week of sterile rooms and pitying looks and _bad_ day time TV. Thankfully, after a few days they began to let him try and get up, walk around and turn his legs back into useful appendages. It’s baby steps, but at least he can pee by himself again. You win some, you lose some.

They had also informed him that Cas has gone to a boarding school – no one apparently knows where – and he tries not to let it show, just how much it hurts. Cas is, they weren’t... It wasn’t like Dean was ready to drop to one knee and sweep the guy of his feet (at the time, it probably would have sent him into an angina attack) but he thought they were, serious. More serious than anyone he’s ever been with, and Cas had been trying to tell him he loves him for fucks sake.

What he wishes he could understand is why Cas didn’t talk to him about it. Dean had pushed him away when he felt himself getting ill. However you don’t wake up one day and out of the blue decide to go to a boarding school. A Catholic boarding school too; Cas’ll find some nice Christian girl who is kosher with his family and get married and have perfect 2.5 kids.

Cas never used to lie. That is, he supposes, until he met Dean.

Dean grinds his teeth. He’ll be ok with it, he’ll have to be. There’s a perfectly logical reason why he feels _neglected_ , empty, a whining baby. He inwardly chastises himself, he needs to spend his receding energy on moving his legs. Today’s the day he breaks out of his white walled prison. Awesome.

Sam takes one arm, John takes the other and a compilation of Bobby, Ellen and Jo trail behind. They use the elevator, in spite of Dean’s assurances that he’ll be fine on the stairs. He knows, logically, that his family are concerned and don’t want him to hurt himself, but seriously, the second they make it to the parking lot they’re surrounding him; like a mother hen protecting her chicks.

“Guys,” He says the moment he finds himself without one pair of hands on him.

He doesn’t understand why it’s bothering him, them touching him and being on such high alert to his every move. The molecules of his body aren’t made of china, he isn’t going to scuff his shoe and crack into a million pieces. Perhaps it’s a lasting effect of being in the hospital, all those latex gloves and no privacy or dignity. He shudders and sighs.

John’s unlocking the Impala and the Harvelle’s are giving him their hardass but we love you look. He rolls his eyes, smiling at the corner of his mouth. Where he does draw the fucking line though is when Sam opens the door for him and physically tries to manhandle him in.

“Sam, dude.” He says, eyebrows raised.

Sam flinches back, but sticks his bottom lip out. Well, this isn’t going to end good if people won’t give him 2 seconds to god damn breathe. John’s already in the car, and Sam slides quickly into the back. They wave to the Ellen, Bobby and Jo as they pull away.

Dean should be excited about going home. Instead, he watches the world fly by past the window, vaguely speculating on the last time he was in the passenger seat. _Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole._ He laughs, to himself and tries not to notice the void beat of his heart as they pass by Cas’.  

They pull into the drive, and John takes his time to cut the engine. Dean opens his door and looks around, trying to evaluate a way to do this without making it feel like someone is individually ripping the stitches out and stretching his skin too far. Bounding out of his seat, Sam practically runs into Dean’s legs that had been exiting the car.

Grimacing, Dean starts to get up. Sam is trying to help him up, and does, holding his arms the same way someone would an old depleting man.

“I got ya.”

Dean shakes him off angrily.

“I got it.”

It’s now that John makes his way round the bonnet of the Impala and he frowns at Sam.

“Leave him be, Sammy.” He says, walking up to the door.

Dean is grateful, sorta, and he looks up from the gravel by his wobbly feet. The house is less lived in, in worse shape than when he left it, and he is confused as to why. Were they staying at Bobby’s then? Great, more people his life was a burden to. That explains, to some extent, why the tension was so high a week ago and why Sam is nearly always shooting John accusing glares.

“Well somebody ought to help him, and it sure as hell ain’t you.” Sam sneers back, furiously, clutching Dean’s arm.

“Guys,” Dean groans. He hasn’t even been back two minutes.

Lost in the heat of the moment, John holds up a finger. A dismissal, militaristic.

“No Dean, Sam has something he’d like to get off his chest.” He says, mocking.

By now he’s learned to not argue back. He lets them shout their course. Dean is obviously, appreciative of Sam’s attempts to always have his back, but what he’d like most is for him and John not to fight over every damn thing. He allows the weight of Sam on his arm to support him, getting lost in a clog of suppressed memories that have chosen to resurface during his extended alone time with nothing other than his thoughts.

His first angina attack.

_John came home, it had been close to 3 months since both Winchesters had last seen their Dad and he turns up on the door and tells them they’re leaving tomorrow. Dean, the moulded soldier that he was, went straight for their duffle bag and began to pack up their stuff._

_A hand on his arm stopped him from continuing. It was Sam. His young face defiant, too bold for a mere 5 year old. Everything would have been fine, apart from the decision Sam’s kid brain made next. They had been practising lately, the art of lying and omitting certain truths. The only thing Dean had taught Sam so far was not to ask that one, simple, little, three letter word._

_“Why?”_

_Dean swallowed on reflex. He searched Sam’s eyes imploring the kid to just go with it. John had been more stressed than usual, antsy, and the toll it was taking on his liver was evident in his bloodshot eyes. He loved his kids, wouldn’t raise a finger to them. Raise his voice, on occasion, was a different story though._

_“Samuel. Not now.”_

_“I wanna know why? I don’t like moving.” Sam punctuates this with a stop of his foot and a mad pout._

_“Sam,” Dean tries quietly._

_His brother whips round so fast, his little legs are still tumbling slightly, and he pokes Dean hard in the chest, leaning over the ancient patterns of their twin sized bed._

_“You don’t want to either!” He shouts accusingly._

_No, he admits to himself, slowly taking back to packing the bag. John hasn’t said anything, so Dean fills the silence with the thoughts inside his head. But Sam doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get how many times Dean has given up food for him or tried to steal stuff when they ran out of food, money, clothes. Sam doesn’t get that on Dean’s first day in a new school the only thing he was worried about was how Sam was doing at nursery. The first thing Dean learned to do was shoot a gun, other kids learned how to swing a bat to hit a ball._

_“Sam, I’ll buy you a new toy, ok?” He’s pulling out all the stops here. There’s not enough money to waste on loads of new stuff; they only carry as much as they can fit in the Impala. Still, it seems to placate Sam, who crawls onto the bed and lies down with a huff._

_“Listen to your brother Sam.” John sighs, anger reducing somewhat from his tone, “And Dean would it kill you to tidy up once in a while?”_

_Dean mumbles an apology but it only serves to spur Sam on. He jumps up on the bed, shouting at the top of his lungs something Dean can’t hear._

_The motel room is fuzzy and he leans back, blinking his eyes slowly. His heart is beating really hard, he fists his hand in his shirt. Dad and Sam are in the middle of a shouting match and all he can hear is blood pumping in his ears. There’s a very good chance he’s going to spew over the bed, and then Dad won’t be getting his deposit back for the room._

_“Dad-“_

_He feels... Sleepy. Really, suddenly, tired._

_The last thing he hears, as he attempts to make them stop fighting for a second, is his Dad barking an order at him._

_“Boy, get your brother ready to go and finish packing.”_

_He’d woken up in a hospital and Dad and Sam had walked on eggshells around him. They didn’t argue when he was around. He’s not fragile dammit. But his Dad only saw the weakness in his heart and each time he left, he tried to hand him more weapons. Who would have thought that the battle would be lost on the inside in the end?_

“Dad! Sam!” He shouts, in a moment of perfect clarity. “Stop fucking fighting. I’m fine.”

Only he’s not, he’s so not.

He roughly throws Sam’s arm off, ignoring his apology and efforts to grab him again. His legs carry him before his mind can catch up, and he’s half way across the road to Cas’. He pivots, angry at himself. Yanking the Impala’s door open, he slides into the driver’s seat. No, he doesn’t have the fuck damn keys, and even if he did, the medication he’s on would make driving a ‘trip’ indeed. So he disregards Sam and Dad, frozen in place outside of the windshield; his head drops against the steering wheel.

If Cas was around...

He bites his bottom lip, deciding, whether he has to walk to get there or crawl, he’ll get a drink tonight. Drown his sorrows the old fashioned way. His heart agrees, beating with a surprising calm that doesn’t take the rest of him over.


	19. Shine A Light In My Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Cas' Melittology teacher.
> 
> Who, btw, Crowley isn't fond of. But he is fond of Cas, who is fond of Dean, he just can't act on it yet.
> 
> Dean goes to the school counselor, he might be familiar to y'all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY SPN RETURNING *S10 FANFARES*

The library is dark when Cas walks in. Lines and lines of shelves are overflowing with stacks of books, scripts, ancient texts that belong in a museum rather than here. Large bay windows allow the start of the morning sun to peak through, and Cas watches it rise as he settles into his familiar chair at the table in the back of the room. There is the faint smell of must and honey; his teacher often brings samples for him to examine.

Everything is old, comforting, the red threadbare seats contrasting to the far newer painted walls, the wooden shelves covered in blankets of dust over the volumes that have been neglected to be read for a good many years. Castiel likes his teacher; his name is Cain. In the same way Cas has found – he is almost absolutely certain that he has skipped the many stages of grieving – he enjoys being up early.

Most nights he does not sleep.

They have offered him antidepressants, anything to keep him from the rebound that he is apparently on the edge of. However, he has shown them by throwing himself into his studies, that he does not require medication. He has, more privately, been spending his alone time with Anna. It has gotten to the point that he is over the weird looks people passing send him, when he goes to sit in the gardens and follow the bees, talking to Anna on occasion or acknowledging her presence. She doesn’t always come. Sometimes he appreciates the solitary wanders through the gardens.

Anna says that she works here, at the college. It’s nice for him to know that she is a permanent fixture. It makes sense, if you think about it. He has been ripped from his home, his family, his friends, and is suffering a recent loss of a loved one, the only logical way for his brain to react is to create someone he trusts and is comforted by that is not in a position to leave him.  

The sun is peaking over the edge of the hill, bright rays glistening off the beads of condensation on the windows, the shadows of the trees and bushes growing tall along the boundaries of the garden where he can see. Closing his eyes, he waits patiently for Cain to arrive.

He opens his eyes as the scuffling of feet further in the library fills his senses. Not many of the other students use the library at this time, he is almost always alone. The click of heels crack against the floorboards and instead of the loose fitting bottoms of trousers and soft, worn shoes coming into view, he is assaulted with polished boots and suit trousers.

“Castiel, you giraffe!” His voice exclaims, offensively loud in the hush of the sleepy books, “I’ve come to collect you.”

Cas tilts his head. So far the entirety of his course has been theory, bee types, habits, seasonal behaviours. It is why they do the lessons in the library, an abundance of knowledge surrounds them, not that his teacher appears to need it.

“Where am I going?” He asks, rising from the chair and neatly tucking it back in.

Crowley shifts uncomfortably, his expression contorting with badly controlled trepidation.

“You’re in for a real treat mate,” He drawls, sarcasm heavy in his words, “Cain’s invited you to his personal bee... thing.” Waving a indifferent hand, Crowley turns on his heel.

“Apiculture,” Cas states, following behind.

He throws Cas a look.

“Sorry, did you sneeze?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

The two of them have developed a rather, strange, friendship. They recognize each other’s existence, which is more than Cas has seen Crowley show many of the other teachers let alone students. He teaches Religious Studies, specialising in the broad topic of ‘Damnation’. Cas doesn’t understand why anyone would want to know in depth the ways of torture and so called redemption; the thought of hell used to seem quite abstract.

They have traipsed down the elaborate hallway and to the front of the school, the wide archways raised about them. The taps of their feet are loud, a crisp morning breeze rolling by as they walk down the steps. He has no idea where Cain’s is, he had presumed the older man lived on site.

Crowley strides left, his shoes squelching in the soft mud. He frowns, clearly unimpressed with that development.

Cas sporadically gets caught distracted by a passing bird, or bee, and Crowley has to wait for him to catch back up. Early morning walks are one of his few pleasures.

“Why do you teach about topics that are demonic?” Cas says, walking complacently beside Crowley.

The older man laughs, side eyeing him.

“You believe in ‘God’ Castiel?”

Without a moment’s hesitation Cas answers, “Of course.”

This amuses Crowley further.

“You can’t believe in a God and not believe in the Devil now, can you?”

Castiel considers this.

“No, I suppose not.”

The smugness is shortly wiped off his face as they approach the edge of the hill. Cas can see now, in the direction opposite to the woods he had run to what feels like a lifetime ago, is a small wooden structure, surrounded by bee hives. He all but runs towards it, Crowley dragging slowly behind him.

“You’ve got what’s called passive enthusiasm, you know that kid.” He says, his steps gradually decreasing.

“Thank you.”

There is a man, shrouded in a large white suit, whose attention is drawn to their conversation and away from the bee colony he was checking. The sun is shining brilliantly now, the shadows of trees barely reaching the rows of structures outside the house. Cain’s face is covered, but his stance is open as Cas approaches down the dirt path.

“Right well this is me done.” Crowley shouts.

Cain is making his way over and that is when Crowley chooses to take his exit. Cas is oblivious as to Crowley’s discomfort.

“Afternoon Castiel,” Cain greets, the almost kind smile visible through his suit as Cas’ eyes follow a passing bee. “I thought that we should take advantage of the good weather.”

His eyes trace Crowley’s receding steps; Cas simply nods.

“Then let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

The first few days are the hardest. Everything from the menial to the challenging, such as getting out of bed and walking up the stairs, is exhausting. His new heart thrums in his chest, the beat chanting a happy tune of ‘alive, alive, alive’ but the healing wound on his peck aches and stings. A single brush of clothing has him holding back a wince; he feels like a wuss for admitting it, even to himself, when Sam hugs him, there’s a second when he thinks the heart is going to detach itself and fall through the stitches.

School keeps contacting him as well, although he has made it perfectly clear he has no intention of going to college, has a job that he is happy with at Bobby’s and therefore has utterly 0% desire to go and take his GED.

His Dad wasn’t having it though.

Which is laughable, given that the old man has been even more... Careful, in the way that he treats Dean. He makes sure he eats, doesn’t drive, keeps on taking the pain killers if it gets too much. And then he’s gone, to where Dean doesn’t know, but it’s driving him crazy. Dad’s going to get himself killed. Dean’s not ok with that.

Sam goes back to school the day after he comes home and his phone practically explodes from texts.

| _Glad to hear you have found the force and are back in Mordoor. Your Queen needs you._

| _Yo Winchester, you back in business now then?_

| _Call me for porn_

After reading Gabe’s he promptly switches his phone off. All the texts are great, he’s flattered honestly, but the name he wants to flick on his screen isn’t there. He scowls. It’s not going to be there, freaking dumbass. He throws his phone at the wall, and there’s a sharp crack before it bounces on the bed.

“Dean?” John calls.

Oh, so he’s decided to come home then. Peachy, just peachy.

“You have an appointment with the school counselor. You want me to give you a ride?”

Groaning, Dean leans his head against the door.

“No.” He shouts back, petulantly.

“Great, get down here.” He replies, and Dean can hear the front door open. Bones barks at him, like the nut job he is.

Sam’s already at school, so this is going to be a nice tense ride. He grunts an angry reply he knows John won’t hear, stomping out of his room and taking the stairs two at a time.

He reels against his body’s orders. The pain radiates from his chest and he’s still not over someone else’s heart in there. Not over it, not even near the bridge that starts to ascend acceptance.

John stares at him as he walks, trying his hardest not to show the pain. That’s what soldiers do, and boys who don’t want people to fuss about them.

The drive is quiet, the clouds scanning past the window. It’s not far to school, he could have walked. He wishes he could be driving, but his medication would make it unsafe. Dejected, he returns to humming the cassette that Dad has in and waiting for the conversation that he is stepping into to be over.

 

He’s sitting in a chair, opposite some probably overpaid, casually dressed, skinny dude. The guy would be better on a kids’ TV show; he has a sock puppet on his hand. A sock puppet for God's sake?!

“Hi Dean, my name is Garth and this little fella is Mr Fizzles.” He gestures to himself and his hand.

Dean stares on unimpressed.

“I’m glad to see that you are well, gave the school quite a scare-“

He scoffs. Garth frowns. For a second Dean imagines Mr Fizzles scowling at him too. How many pills did he take?

“Why are you not planning on taking your GED? You can do a lot of things with a qualification like that.”

“I don’t see the point,” He says and a wave of epiphany washes over him. He’s being honest with himself, for the first time since his feelings about Cas.

Garth clears his throat, bringing him back from staring into the distance.

 “So did you discover the meaning of life or anything?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean slouches back further into the chair. The tick of rubbing his heart has not subsided, causing him to wince as his fingers brush over the still healing scar.

“Sure, everything is dust in the wind.” He stops touching the scar and instead rubs the bridge of his nose. There’s so much other shit going down, the last thing that is honestly on his mind right now is his own emotions and whether or not he will cock up in his finals. The answer to the first, he will never care for – and let’s face it, neither does anyone else – and he knows he is going to fuck it up so what’s the point in this meeting?

He shrugs, to himself, and stands up from his chair.

“That’s... That’s a Kansas song!” Garth finally stutters as he leaves, closing the door on the shouts to call him back.

He is Dean Winchester. And he no longer gives a flying fuck, maybe he’s crazy. He doesn’t care. There’s only one priority for him now; to find out whatever the hell it was his Dad did to save his life. That means, oh yeah, he needs to start calling people. See the thing is, Dad doesn’t think that Dean remembers anything: just the blistering heat and retching coughs scratching its claws through his lungs. He also doesn’t think he remembers the time not too long after Dad taught him to fire a gun.

Azazel kidnapped him and Sam.

John made a deal.

He laughs humourlessly, self-loathing pumping through his bloodstream like a drug, slowly taking his head to a strange place that he calls home. People always assume, because he’s not the intelligent Winchester after all, that he is quite simply an idiot. Dad goes to work, a dog to the trade, and can only afford to send, what, $500 a month. And he’s gone 75% of the year.

No, Dean Winchester is not the idiot everyone – except Sammy, he supposes – thinks he is. Even Cas, bailed. He’s not really worth the renewed beat in his chest. He’s not worth his Dad getting into shit with the _guy that killed mom._

He’s most definietely not worth all the stress Sam has been through.

He sighs.

He’ll try to make it up to the kid, fix this thing with Dad and, maybe, he can absolve himself and get to say sorry to Cas... To everyone.

Taking the stairs, with less confidence than home, he determinedly makes his way back to Baby.


	20. Who's Running This Crazy Operation?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Change
> 
> Devious plotting ensues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be up, like, 2 days ago. I apologise profusely, but should have 2 more up by Sunday c:
> 
> Comment away my lovely readers :3

Leaning against his car, he taps his foot impatiently as he waits for his brother to get off the plane. He’s had this planned for a short while now; thank God Balthy finally cleared his schedule to get his scrawny ass back stateside. Gabriel smirks, (yes, Gabe’s running this show now), the lollipop clicking against his teeth. The familiar blond hair and too low v-neck shirt bursts through the automatic doors, the air rolling with the suave and elegance that Balthazar emits.

His brother grins lazily at the sky, the heat is almost unbearable but it is considerably colder in Europe, before looking back down and throwing his arms open to Gabe. Immediately rushing in to hug one another, they flair their fireworks of the dramatic, Balthy attempting and failing to whirl Gabriel around in a circle.

“There’s my pranking buddy,” Gabe says, pointing a finger to the car and letting Balthazar deal with his bags. He missed his brother, but not enough to show him real kindness thank you very much. “It’s good to see you Balth.”

“And you darling,” He drawls in a distinct British accent. Oh he let his brother stay away too long, “So sorry I haven’t visited, and this drama with Cassie wasn’t exactly how I was planning to make my fated return.”

He climbs into the passenger side as he’s talking, fitting right back into Gabe’s life like he never left. Snorting, Gabriel puts the car into drive; Balthazar makes an indignant sound, the jerking motion making him miss the seatbelt hole and nearly hit his head.

“That was a bad excuse, sorry.” He mutters, his head lolling into the crevasse between the car door and the seat. “Wake me up when he get to our illustrious comrades, won’t you?”

Gabe side eyes his brother, rolling his eyes and remembers, “Jetlag.”

And this is where he is, driving to his illustrious team of Cassie’s friends; the nervousness that is coiling like a screw in his gut – that he won’t ever let anyone see – dissipating somewhat.

But, I suppose, we should probably start at the beginning of Gabe’s reign...

 

_1 week ago_

“We have to break Cassie out,” he states, mostly to himself because Sam is ‘technically’ not with him.

The youngest Novak looks up, startled by the very idea and the seriousness in his normally nonchalant brother’s tone. Thinking, he frowns up at Gabe.

“How are you gunna do that? And what if he doesn’t want to leave?” He says, fingers turning the Mc Donald’s toy in his hand.

So Gabe isn’t the classiest brother in the world, and bonding time involves a trip to the Mc Donald’s drive through and eating it on the bonnet of his car, overlooking fields similar to the ones they used to play in. Sam enjoys himself, and, at any rate, it has to beat another hour of enforced Bible study.

“I don’t know kiddo,” he stares into the swaying corn, the sun dipping below the golden strands. The sun turns a deep red, completely clear of clouds, the sea stretching out across the horizon. “I’ll think of something. I always do, right?”

He shoves Sam’s shoulder playfully; teasing his brother with a lopsided grin. However, Sam has always been too perceptive for his own good and he just looks into him, through him, his innocent eyes retaining more sadness than one kid should endure.

“Right.”

Slipping off the car, they pile back into the car. Something seems to have shifted, and Sam hums absently to the pop song on the radio, letting Gabe run everything over in his head. First things first, he’s going to need reinforcements.

 

Two days later and he is no closer to giving Cas a choice than he was when Mickey originally took him. It’s not like he’s lacking in resources, he surmises, pacing back and forth across his kitchen. The thing is big enough to walk around the perimeter and waste a large portion of time, which is exactly how he’s spent the last 48 hours.

He tries the phone again, pinching his brow at the unyielding drone of the dialling tone.

“What the bloody hell do you want,” Suddenly, a very disgruntled Balthazar is crowing, “At,” he pauses, “4 in the fucking morning?”

“A pleasure it is to hear your voluptuous voice too bro.” Gabe stops pacing and hops onto the edge of the counter.

“What do you want Gabriel? I was about to lavish my dear little Christine again, did you know that baise moi is French for-“

“Balthazar,” He interjects, sternly, “Cassie’s in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” He can hear Balthazar sit up, and there’s the sound of a high pitch groan in protest to the movement.

“The kind that means I need you here, presto.”

There’s a beat, and the mirth that two of the lighter hearted Novak’s usually holds is gone, leaving hard shells of those men.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He places his phone down on the counter and stares off into the distance for a while. This is the biggest operation since his senior year prank; that was of epic proportions.

Legally, he can’t tell you the details. It did, and you _didn’t_ hear it from Gabe, involve an alligator, 54 cans of silly string, a stripper, the Principle and 3 police officers. He sighs happily in fondness of the memory. Point is though, if that was a bitch to organise...

This is on a whole ‘nother scale.

There’s also the small matter of his criminal record, and all of his old contacts are probably monitored or, you know, grown up now. He pouts, blowing a raspberry, and picks his phone back up. Since Cassie started going out with Deano, about time too, he was considering instigating it himself after hearing non-stop from Cas ‘Dean’s eyes are so green’ and ‘Dean is righteous and kind’ blah blah blah, Gabe had taken Dean’s number. Precautionary, should he ever need to scare the living shit out of the kid.

He is kind of glad he never tried his more adventurous pranks on the Winchester; he might have actually given him a heart attack and killed him. Somehow he doesn’t think Cas would be able to forgive him for that – them being childhood sweethearts and whatnot.

Dean, unlike his own pompous brother, picks up on the third ring.

“Trickster?” He stops, confused, and Gabriel gives him a few seconds to work out that Gabe had also saved his number into his phone, “Oh... Right, Gabe.”

“Sup Deano?”

“Nothing really,” Dean says uncertainly, and Gabriel doesn’t have to be a genius to detect the stress in his voice and tiredness that hangs off the syllables of the word ‘nothing’.

“And the new ticker?”

“It’s fine.”

The tension that grits Dean’s voice is nearly a presence in the room, pouring out of the speaker of his phone. Gabriel notices that Dean said ‘it’ rather than ‘I’m’ and he’s about to call Doctor Phil because he is blatantly psychologist material. He knows that the kid is breaking, probably tearing himself up about Cas too.

In Gabriel’s lack of talking, or inner monologue, Dean has huffed in irritation, calling him on his own game. It must be a big brother thing.

“Can the small talk Gabe, what do you really want, cos it sure as hell ain’t to check up on me.”

He blinks at the tone of Dean’s voice, and wow, things must be worse than he thought. Maybe he should have kept a better eye on them like Cassie asked him too. Well, not that Cas will know any worse if they don’t get to him. Nevertheless, he sets a mental reminder to get Sam to check on Sammykins and report back, he knows that Sam hid his phone when he got put on total lock down.

“You’re right, I don’t care how you’re doing,” As begrudging as it is to admit, he can’t magic Cas out of this sticky situation and requires assistance. Dean, meanwhile, exhales like he’s relieved and Gabe is momentarily left speechless, talk about self worth issues. “But I need your help.”

“For the last time, I’m _not_ starring in one of your pornos Gabriel!”

The kid sounds so affronted, and the suggestion has Gabe laughing. He doesn’t remember ever asking Dean to star in a porno, let alone more than once. He must have been really smashed.

“It’s nothing like that,” He chuckles again, “We need to bust Cas out.”

Dean’s breath hitches, the sound of silence filtering through.

“Yo Deano, you still with us?”

“What can I do?” Conviction weighs heavy in his voice, and Gabe doesn’t have the heart to tell him then that a) he doesn’t have a complete plan figured out yet and b) Cas might currently  think that Dean is dead.

That’s going to be a tough one to circumvent. Thank someone that he is a pro at avoiding things he doesn’t want to talk about. He thinks for a moment because with Dean officially on board, this isn’t as impossible. An idea springs to the forefront of his mind. They need to figure out where this place actually _is_.

“You know your hacker friend...” Gabe remembers her, vaguely, but not her name.

“What Charlie?”

He snaps his fingers. “Yes! Her, how good of a hacker is she?”

“Good enough that if she heard either me or you describe her as ‘good’ she could drain both our bank accounts in seconds.”

“We’re going to need her skills. If I give you a phone number, do you reckon she can trace the phone?”

Truth be told, Gabriel had called that number every day since Cas hung up on him, only to receive Metadouche’s sycophantic voice telling him that ‘Castiel has nothing that he wishes to say to you’.

“Probably, she’s being doing worse since she was in like grade 3, text me it and I’ll get back to you.”

“Atta boy Deano,” Gabe hangs up, quickly copying and pasting the number into a text box and hits send.

There is radio silence, until two minutes later when Dean texts a simple reply.

            | _She said to give her 10 minutes_

| _She also called you a butthead_

He frowns at the screen, wondering if he’s the butthead what part of her colourful vocabulary she used on Dean. In that time, Gabriel gets up to make coffee. It is going to be a long night.

His ring tone sounds, and he chokes on a gulp of scalding coffee he swallows in surprise. When did he change it to a Dalek voice repeatedly saying ‘ring ring’ with increasing levels of intensity?

“What you got Deano?” His throat is tight from the hot liquid and eyes blurry with the collection of tears unshed in them. He has got to start drinking less.  

“Bad news Gabe, Charlie said the phone is either turned off, has had its GPS chip removed or has been destroyed.”

“Fuck.”

What the hell is he going to do now?

“She did have another idea though.”

He perks up instantly.

“Oh yeah?”

“This college, it’s a private institution right?”

“Uh yeah.”

He leans on the counter, idly turning a chocolate in his hand. There are times when he’s not even sure where the food and stuff comes from.

“So, there has to be payments and things. She can hack your Mom’s bank account; all we need is sort code.”

“I can manage that.”

 

He may have overestimated his own ability. Massively. His Mom had been home, the next day _and_ the day after that, I mean really. Balthazar’s flying in a few days and he still hasn’t got the information for Charlie. He’s letting down his own team.

In reality, he shouldn’t be surprised when Sam, his baby brother, knocks on the window to his car that – he thought had been well hidden – was parked a couple of houses up, before climbing into the backseat. Smugly, he hands him an envelope that contains a single letter.

“Sam how did you-“

“Sam mentioned that you could use a little help, and he’s doing ok by the way,” He cuts him off shrugging as he shimmies back out of the car, “Cas is my brother too.”

He stares at the packet dumbstruck, eventually managing to pull himself together and drive away; Sam’s face nods from the window at the top of the house in the centre.

Texting Dean the details, he sets about plotting the next part of his devious plan. It needs to be meticulous, a well oiled machine with all the parts he can control working towards the same goal. What he doesn’t need, and what he receives, is a call one day before Balthazar arrives.

It’s Dean.

“Gabe, we have a problem.”


	21. I'm Trying To Run This Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> problems, solutions, problems, this chapter is now part 2 of four oops
> 
> there is quite a bit of dialogue, apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, your thoughts/feelings on the direction this has taken give me life.
> 
> And make me blush, because you're all awesome ok.

_“Gabe, we have a problem_.”

The optimism and enthusiasm catches in his throat. There is a long period of silence on both ends.

“You gunna elaborate Deano, or am I going to have to start guessing?”

“It’s... I have no idea how to explain it and neither does Charlie.” Dean sighs, “Do you think you could come over?”

It’s phrased as a question, but really, what can Gabe say to that? He hangs up, grabbing his coat and runs out of the door to his car. The drive to the Winchester’s is short, although the expectation of what exactly could have gone wrong is fuelling a fire in his chest.

The impala is in the drive, though Gabe has reason to suspect that Dean’s Dad isn’t home. Parking along the curb, he climbs out of his own car and walks across the grass to the front door. His steps crunch, frosted mud and sprouts of green collapsing under his weight. It’s dark out, dusk raining down on the weak glimpse of sunshine that trickles over the houses. Sam’s house is cloaked in a blanket of the ending daylight, and Gabe takes longer than he should to knock at Dean’s door.

He doesn’t even raise his fist before Sam is holding the door open, leading him up the stairs and directing him to Dean’s room.

“Thanks Sammykins.”

His voice causes Dean and Charlie to jump; Dean who has tired rings running laps around his eyes and Charlie who reacted without removing her eyeballs from the screen in front of her.

“Hey, Gabe,” Dean stands up from the puffy cushion he was sitting on, offering him the second best seat in the house, “We’re fucking stumped.”

Dean’s room is pretty much what Gabe thought it would be – some things he didn’t think it would be. The walls are plastered with band posters and movie pictures, there’s a bookshelf that is wholly under filled with books, a desk that clearly does not currently have his laptop on it, and a single bed positioned under the window. He’s surprised by how tidy the room is, Dean doesn’t have many possessions to cause mess with, but still, the bed is made and everything is neatly arranged.

Sitting in Dean’s vacated spot, Gabriel runs his eyes over the screen as Charlie leans back to allow him a better view.

“I’ve tried running a translation algorithm, and it didn’t work. That could translate Klingon but not this?” She shouts slouching back into the chair.

The page is covered in squiggles, lines of words that would definitely appear to be random to anyone else but oh... Fuck.

“That’s because it’s Enochian,” Gabe says running a hand through his hair. He should have paid more attention in Sunday school.

“Enochian?” Dean and Charlie ask at the same time.

“Language of the angels and stuff. I would be able to read it but,” He pouts his lips, “I don’t remember what any of it means.”

“Well that’s super helpful, thank you Gabe.”  

He shoots Dean a withering look, and sees him rubbing at his chest as he perches on the edge of his bed, elbow leaning on his knee. It’s something Cas used to mention that he never picked up on.

“What the...”

Charlie brings her face closer to the screen, squinting at it like it will magically reveal its true meaning. Dean gets up to crowd in on her left; Gabe tilts his head at it on her right.

“I know someone who can speak ancient languages.”

All their heads whip round to face Sam, who is propped up in the doorway. In one hand he has his phone, which he is twirling in his gradually-getting-bigger paw, and the other is holding Dean’s car keys.

“His name is Kevin.”

Gabriel is a 28 year old man, sitting in a car with 2 nerds who are 10 years younger than him, and his little brother’s best friends, and a 14 year old who knows another 14 year old that can read ‘ancient languages’. It’s getting to the point where he is not even surprised anymore. Godzilla could literally burst out of the drain pipes and tell Gabe that he is the next messiah, and he wouldn’t even bat an eye.

That sounds like a movie plot.

Anyway, they pull up to Kevin’s and knock on his door. They must look like groupies or out-of-date trick or treaters. Either way, Kevin’s Mom (presumably) who opens the door doesn’t seem shocked to see them.

“He’s in his room upstairs.”

The four of them manage to walk at a respectable pace up the stairs, hiding their urgency pretty well considering.

“Hey Kevin,” Sam says opening the kids door.

Inside is plain; blue walls with a few posters, a magnitude of books and practically a throne surrounding the computer.

“Hey Sam,” Kevin says nervously, looking over Sam’s shoulder to scan Gabe, Charlie and Dean, separately in turn. “So you’re sure this will count as extra credit?”

He turns around and Dean nudges Sam’s foot, conveying all their confusion. The brother’s share a private look, and if Gabe didn’t know better, he’d say that Dean was impressed.

“Oh yeah, this is applying your language knowledge.” Sam flops down on Kevin’s bed, leaving the adults still standing awkwardly on the inside of the door.

“Oh my Smaug! Is that the Vortex 2000?” Charlie practically mewls, dashing forward to run her hand over the kid’s computer.

“Yeah it is,” Kevin grins, much more relaxed, “So what did you need me to translate?”

Charlie starts up her laptop, chatting animatedly about the models and latest gaming expeditions of hers. Really, _now_ the two adults are left standing.

“So, do you have an actual plan yet?” Dean asks quietly.

“Deano you wound me,” Gabriel replies just a quiet, not taking his eyes off the computer screen and Kevin, “I’m working on it.”

6 toffees and a lollipop later, Kevin leans back a frown forming at the bridge of his nose. It hadn’t taken him long to translate, Gabe thinks impressed. His expression isn’t exactly promising though.

“What you got champ?” He and Dean had taken to the floor after 5 minutes, casually flinging the wrappers to the sweets at each other.

Hesitantly, Kevin meets his gaze.

“Gabriel, I don’t know what you think you’re doing dear, but if you are so dense as  to believe that my documents would be so easy to hack, you are forgetting who your mother is. Now stop this foolishness be-“

“That’s enough.” Gabriel utters calmly.

“Sorry,” Kevin gulps, placing his notepad down.

“Hey Gabe it’s alright, we’ll just have to think of something else yeah?”

They leave Mrs Tran’s in silence, and he can see Dean shake his head to both Sam and Charlie when they climb in. He will have to think of something else. Trouble is, the thing that the voice in his head is telling him to do is completely unfair.

“There can’t be that many Christian boarding schools can’t we-“ Sam is cut off by another intense glare from Dean.

It isn’t until he is back in his own car, driving home that he answers Dean’s question.

“Yeah.”

Detouring from his original route, Gabriel parks outside an old friend’s house. Balthazar is going to kill him; that is if he makes it out of here alive.

He knocks loudly on the door, foot bouncing with nerves. It’s not that he is afraid, persay, it’s just that he could definitely not come out of this in one piece. He doesn’t deserve to, after everything that has happened.

“Luci!” He bellows enthusiastically, inviting himself through the open door.

The other man gives him a weary look that he pointedly ignores.

He lives in a nice house, lonely maybe, with neutral colours and simplistic furnishings. Gabriel, spins on his heel, turning to face the doubtful expression.

“What do you want Gabriel?”

“Such ice in your tone,” Gabriel shakes his head, “There’s no need to be a great bag of dicks Luce.”

Unwavering silence and eye contact answers him. Just like that, the bounce and humor falls away, leaving a desperate big brother with no options left.

“You heard what Mickey and Mom did to Cas?”

Lucifer flinches.

“No,” Lucifer says, his frame seemingly tall against the white of his doorframe.

“I need a favour.” Gabriel states slowly.

“Not interested.” Reaching for the door handle, Gabriel rushes forward to place a hand on his arm.

“Look I get it ok, but if I don’t do something Cas might never get the chance to choose. He really likes that Winchester kid. I’d do it myself if I thought Mike would listen.”

Hatred seethes through Lucifer’s face, his eyes cold and grey.

“He can’t even stand to be in my presence, Gabriel.” The abhorrence dims, fire extinguishing, “What is it that you need?”

“Just the name of the place, please Luke.”

His friend’s eyes close. The latch of the door clicks down, allowing a burst of chilly air onto Gabriel’s desperate face.

“I’ll try.”


	22. Shit Just Got Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luci and Mike have a chat
> 
> Gabe and Balthy plot some stuff
> 
> Dean and John... Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think c:
> 
> ((sorry for mistakes))

Gabriel is an ass.

Lucifer exhales, rubbing the calloused pad of his finger against his forehead. How many fires does he have to go running into head first before he realises that yeah, the fires burn?

Another one, apparently.

Shaking his head, he moves back down his laminated hallway to the kitchen; slumping into the chair like the weight of the world will snap the meagre wooden legs. He doesn’t want to talk to Michael. In fact, besides the odd time his work demands it, the thought of even seeing Michael is rather nauseating. However, he is reminded by Gabe’s words that this isn’t about him, or Michael’s grudge match, it’s about Cas being sent to a Catholic school for liking _boys_ of all things.

It’s the precise opposite of Chuck’s intentions.

Believing in God doesn’t dictate very much, other than the religion you follow and who you put your faith in. Personally, Lucifer tries to believe that if there is a God out there, his wife and child are with him. His faith suffices only something to hold onto, while he remains in this semi-hell. It does not affect his sexuality, or the fact that he wrangles death almost every day and has a tattoo sleeve on his arm.

He scowls at the thought of the him, Mr Novak, because it’s all Chuck’s fault he’s got himself in this mess anyway. He’d been looking out for the Novak’s long before YED made his presence known to the Winchester’s, and what a coincidence it is that Castiel would become infatuated with the eldest. Of course, this would have all gone a lot smoother if Chuck hadn’t of pulled a Houdini act – on him too, which was hugely unappreciated – and Anna, dear sweet Anna, hadn’t tried to do the same.

He sits with wide eyes, arm resting on the counter, watching the hand of his clock tick round. He breathes heavily through his nose, stretches his aching back, and checks the clock again.

Michael will be on his way to his shift in an hour.

He closes his eyes.

The early morning is quiet, no hellfire on the horizon or screams of sirens deafening his ears. A sense of peace settles around him; for once the chaos and urgency isn’t wrapping him into work mode, there isn’t anyone to save nor a fire to put out. Still, the same slam of his heart picks up, jack-hammering inside his chest, with each mile that ticks by on his milometer.

He has always hated the hospital, white and sterile in a way that made his carbon singed clothes seem dirty, tainted, and unwelcome. It’s also bleakly shaped all hard corners and sleek edges, and then there is the hilarious parting gift of Chuck’s fathers, fathers, somebody. The 4 archangels that line the rooftop. Chuck managed to make everything even more ironic by naming two of his children after them; Lucifer never understood his own mother’s appeal.

People leaving after their night shift and others pulling in to start the morning shift fill the car park. The residue of the night hangs over them all, keeping the air still and cold. Lucifer taps his fingers against his steering wheel, watching the puffs of his warm breath curl like dragons breath in the confines of his car.

The staff here know him, because being a fire fighter mean that sometimes you don’t get there quick enough, sometimes you’re in time to save them... Other times, you’re not. They don’t pay him much heed as he parks and climbs out, rubbing his hands together. At least God has a sense of humor, he has certainly set the mood for the conversation that will soon take place.

He’s used to being here hoping that someone is going to make it, on the odd occasion that he comes with them, not for something as trivial as this. It’s all too foreign, and he traces the paths through the quiet walls to the staff room in the Respiratory department. He passes a few nurses, who he smiles at politely, and then he’s standing before the door. Trying to reel in his discomfort (Gabriel is going to owe him for the rest of his life) Lucifer knocks three times in quick succession.

A Doctor opens the door, a woman he doesn’t recognise, and he gives his most charming grin, eyes flicking to her name tag while she’s distracted. _Dr L. Cole_.

“Hi Dr Cole,” _Gotta be charming_ , “I was just wondering if my buddy Michael was in, see he-“

“Lucifer.” The curt voice behind him causes him to straighten up.

Michael looks older than when he had last seen him, the start of grey flecks moulding into his brown hair, his eyes blink, lifeless besides that human motion. The way he’s frowning, and the growl underlying his voice doesn’t help to make him come across any younger.

He puts on his most genuine smile, Dr Cole being left forgotten.

“Hey Mike, we need to have a quick chat.”

Following Michael out, their footsteps echo as they breeze past the bustling nurses and doctors, patients and staff. Whereas Michael strides with purpose, Lucifer keeps himself casual, unfazed by the thoughts no doubt being thrown his way. It’s funny how a 30 year old man can come across as the spoilt child that he really is; he hasn’t even started pushing buttons yet.

“Why have you come here Lucifer?” Michael says, his voice strained.

They step out to the back of the hospital, the smoking area that has more cigarette butts on the ground than the rest of the surrounding area combined. Stress of the job, he snorts, the itch of getting his lighter out and getting his own fix, a dull ache beneath his skin.

“Honestly? Gabe is worried about Castiel.”

Michael hasn’t turned to face him.

“Oh, so we’re being honest with each other now are we?” Michael’s back tenses, his form hunched over, foot scuffing at the thinly pressed butts stuck in the cracks of the concrete.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks, truly confused by the notion that he would be anything other than honest. His hand reaches out, to sooth the tension but he freezes, thinking better of that train of thought. Michael reacts badly to support from an authority figure, grappling with his father’s absence, even at 21, had taken its toll on him. “I have never had any cause to lie to you, Michael. Even when your father left...”

Michael suddenly whips round, his cool calm tripping over his resolve.

“Don’t speak of father, he was a good man.” He hisses, face coming close to Lucifer’s own.

Standing up to his full height, Lucifer takes a step forward so that their eyes are locked, anger passing between them.

“Your father was a _great_ man. He just asked too much of me.”

His breathing is harsh, and Michael steps back deflated. Chuck wanted to show Michael, the loyal and rule following oldest, that faith does not denote that you should ignore your own feelings. By, and Lucifer couldn’t agree, taking him to Lucifer’s old home; the one that burned down, after a raging homophobe decided that being anything other than straight earned you a straight ticket to hell.

And, Lucifer didn’t get home quick enough.

Michael, however, had seen it as his Dad pushing him towards Lucifer – though flattering, was not at all either of the older male’s intentions – and the negative backlash is taking effect to this day.

“I can’t help you, Lucifer. You need to leave.”

“No,” Lucifer takes Michael by the shoulder, forcing him to look up, “ _You_ need to give Castiel the choice. He’s different Michael, but difference is not always a bad thing.”

“I-I can’t,” Tears start to well up in Michael eyes, and Lucifer lets go.

“You already lost one sibling Michael, do not lose another.”

He says nothing.

“St. Amabilis Catholic College.” It’s so quiet, Lucifer almost misses it.

He won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so he leaves Michael to his silent brooding and walks back to his car. Gabriel is going to owe him free meals in that fancy restaurant of his for the rest of his life. Not that he goes out that much. He can still make the most troublesome Novak squirm under his thumb.

 

* * *

 

“You _WHAT?!”_ Balthazar shouts.

They’ve just made it back from the airport, and, because they didn’t want to risk Mom seeing Balthy back in town, had met Dean, the Sam’s and Charlie at Jo’s Mom’s coffee shop. Jesus, that’s confusing. And he may have let slip, privately, to Balthy that he got Luci to try and worm where Cas is out of Michael.

He didn’t exactly expect it to go down well.

“How could you possibly think that was a good idea? That makes you more of a wanker than I thought.”

Exploding through the doors to the Roadhouse, the rest of their makeshift team are gaping at them in confusion, like deers in the headlight.

“Problem?” Dean says, standing up.

“You must be Cassie’s little boy toy,” Balthazar addresses him, looking him up and down appreciatively, “And to answer your question: Gabriel has several bloody problems, none of which I care to address.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at Gabe, who gives him his best ‘don’t even ask’ face.

There are a few people in, who have gone back to drinking their drinks and talking quietly among themselves. The rest, i.e. the ‘let’s break Cas out clan’ are bundled into the 6-seater booth in the far corner. Charlie has her laptop up and ready, her fingers pattering absently on the keys as she bites her lip. The Sam’s are talking to each other in hushed tones, clearly sensing the pressure that has followed the eccentric Balthazar in.

“Well?” Balthazar pivots on his heel, irritation still flushed on his face.

Gabe takes his phone from his pocket and waves it in Balthy’s face; he then slides into the booth next to Sam and opposite Dean, before dramatically placing it onto the centre of the table, crossing his arms and slotting his chin in the gap to bring his face to its level. He stares at the square of plastic, aware of everyone else’s eyes on him.

“Now we wait.”

Jo comes over soon after, asking them if they want drinks. They’re all too antsy to answer properly, distractedly ordering cokes and coffees if for nothing other than to have something to do with their hands. The atmosphere of the coffee shop is nice, tranquil, with the soothing aroma of tea and herbs, the acoustic alternative music playing softly in the background.

A guy called Ash, who was previously passed out in the bar on the other side of the coffee shop, joins them, and Gabe loses sight of the conversation once they start talking about LARPing and something vague like enterprise (to his amusement Dean had asked what he was thinking, which was 'isn’t that a Star Wars film?'). He stares at his phone, hoping that Lucifer will strike gold.

The robotic chime of ‘ring ring’ blares from his phone, and he scrambles in his haste to answer it. Balthazar is shooting him a dirty look, but he ignores it.

“Luci, babe, what you got for me?”

He starts to imagine, in the short period that Lucifer doesn’t answer, what he is going to do if Luci failed. He’s almost out of ideas, though.

“St. Amabilis, and you owe me Gabriel.”

His ‘duh’ and ‘thanks man’ are swallowed by the dialling tone, and he can feel the splitting grin he’s wearing.

“We got a name people.”

 

* * *

 

Dean watches as their nervous tangle of people hear 2 words and it damn near catalyses them into action. One minute he’s trying to keep up with Charlie and Ash’s conversation, then Gabe’s weird ass ringtone went off, Balthazar is still giving Gabe the stink eye, and the Sam’s seem caught up in it all.

While Charlie googles for directions, maps and information, Balthazar and Gabe talk strategy. Ash supervises, and falls asleep. Sammy is on his phone, probably texting Jess, and Sam is staring, hopefully, at his big brother. It’s insane.

He might get Cas back, soon. If they’re still going out; if not, he will have to get over it. Cas is most likely happy where he is now, he won’t want to come back to Dean, to Lawrence. Hell, Sammy’s going to be bustin’ out of here pretty soon, and Dean will be left to take care of Dad. Not that he minds, he thinks to himself, frowning. It’s his duty, to be a good son and to raise Sam. At least he hasn’t managed to fuck that up, Sammy’s a good kid.

He can hear Gabe talking about stake outs and being able to _run_ at a moment’s notice, something he and Balthazar have apparently been doing since they were kids. His heart clenches involuntary at the thought. There’s no way he’s going to able to kick start his lungs and get the blood pumping, not to mention his stamina will only get him a few feet.

There’s nothing he has to offer this; it’ll be like he isn’t even trying to see Cas. He doesn’t deserve Cas, even when he does come back. They’ve slapped a new heart in his chest and told him he’s fine, there’s no infection, his body isn’t rejecting the organ, and he feels worse. It’s as though his heart, whoever’s heart it was, is a void and all they’ve done is sutured the wound. He’s got nothing left to offer.

“Dean?” Sam’s concerned voice filters in; Dean realises he’s been staring at the necklace around Gabe’s neck for the past- however long he’s been zoned out for.

He clears his throat, trying to bring back some semblance of ‘I’m totally fine’.

“Yeah Sammy?” He tilts his head to face his brother, who has a prime bitchface on.

Awesome, he’ll be hearing about this as soon as they get home. Since when did Sam become mother hen?

_When your heart gave out and he saw you in a hospital bed; you practically stole his childhood you selfish asshole. What? You think raising him to be the best he can be will make up for 10 years of waiting for the other shoe to drop? Please, you're starting to believe your own bullshit._

That’s a nasty place in his head that he’s fallen into wow. He spaces out for a few seconds, expression unmoving on his face as he tries to process the truth that just slammed through his veins.

“Gabe asked you a question.” Sam says, deliberately slow.

“If it’s ‘are you ok?’ I swear to God Gabe I will hide your fucking twinkies.” Dean croaks, falling into his default setting off a dick on the defensive.

Gabriel actually pales.

“No worries Deano, I just wanted to know whether you can hold the fort for when me and Balthy get back.”

He feels on common ground with Gabriel; he has no idea why. A big brother thing, he supposes. At any rate, he holds his own on those raised eyebrows and upturned smirk.

“Course, what do you need done?” Dean says, taking a gulp of the now flat coke from the table.

“We need a place to stash him.” Gabriel deadpans, and he’s starting to see where Cas gets it from.

“Oooookay. Why not your place? You could stash the whole of Guantanamo bay on one floor.”

His comment earns a chuckle from Balthazar, and both the Sam’s to smother their laughter. Charlie, of course, has not seen Gabe’s mansion so can’t compare and Ash is so out of it there’s a line of drool hanging from his lip.

“That’s the first place they’ll look, Winchester. I was thinking your surrogate father’s salvage yard thing?”

“Yeah,” Dean says distractedly, and he is almost as horrified as the faces staring at him that his hand has fisted in his shirt, the nails biting into the soft cotton.

“Great, now if everyone plays their roles...”

Dean hides back in that terrifying place back in his head again, with the walls dripping black ooze and every bad word ever said against him stacked high.  The noise of them talking barely filters in, just a hum of nothing. Bobby _is_ like a father to him, and yet he can’t bring himself to _not_ defend his Dad. If he doesn’t, no one will. No one will remember how much he’s lost, and sacrificed, and given up to keep him and Sam afloat.

This is the reason Dean isn’t going to let him work for that son of a bitch Yellow Eyes anymore. Dean’s not ill now, his heart isn’t going to give out (he’s not full health either, mind) so what more can Yellow Eyes hold against his Dad. He has got to know that both Dean and Sam can fight, better than when they were just kids. And that Dean will do anything for Sam, and that he sleeps with a gun under his bed and a knife under his pillow.

Their operation wraps up fairly quickly, everyone designated a specific role. Charlie, Ash and the Sam’s don’t have to do much, they’re like the fall backs. Obviously because Sam is basically a given when it comes to Dean, he is going to be much more involved. Dean needs to call Bobby, make sure that’s ok with him.

He knows it will be; the old grouch reminded him soon after he got out of hospital, that family don’t end in blood, and anyone Dean considers family is immediately inclusive to that rule. Dean had left Bobby’s and had broken down in the car. He’d cried, hard. Because Cas was gone, and he had no idea how to deal with it. He’s a fucking liability and while his eyes are closed, the first thing he can do is be angry; not just any anger, no. It’s wet anger, the kind that dredges from the places he tries to hide it because deep down, he’s scared. So fucking scared. He burns everyone he loves and what he had with Cas was so different, it was like someone let a hurricane out of a bottle in his chest and now Cas is _gone_ and he’s a hole in his chest that’s been stitched but he can still feel it _bleeding_.

Sam is quiet, his shoulders pensive and face stormy, like he’s thinking about how to broach the subject on something. Driving – he can do that again, thank God, because he’s taking a lower dose of painkillers and passed a test thing to make sure he can stay coherent and aware - faster than necessary, Dean reverses Baby into their drive.

It’s night already, the day had waned away with plotting and ~~murder~~. He’s joking of course, although he wouldn’t put it past Gabe if it came to it.

 He opens the door, greeting an enthusiastic Bones with a pat to his head, leaving Sam to let the beast out before going to bed. Light reflecting off the kitchen counter catches Dean’s eye, and he cautiously drops the keys into his coat pocket, reaching behind the coat rack hanging on the wall for the baseball bat they keep there.

Advancing up the hall, he checks left, poking his head through the open bathroom door. He switches, so that his back is against the wall, taking a deep breath, letting the bat hang loosely in his grip by his side.

The kitchen is dark, the inky kind of dark that means he can only make out the basic shapes and the flickering of light that must be from the TV. He turns on the light, swivelling to make sure he has his back to the counter. A figure is slumped over on the sofa, motionless. Dean drops the bat instantly.

“Dad?” He runs over, eyes roaming for injuries or threats.

He finds, though, that the empty bottle of Jack Daniels slips from his Dad’s clenched fingers; his Dad gives a soft groan as he rolls over. There are cuts across his face, and his free arm is circling his ribs.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Dad.” Dean mutters, moving him into a more comfortable position and standing to get the medical kit.

“Dean what are you-“ Sam is about to walk into the kitchen, and Dean walks to block his view.

“Go upstairs Sam.” He says, tired but calm. He doesn’t want his brother to worry about this, the kid has midterms or whatever coming up soon.

“Is Dad drunk?” Sam asks angrily, but he clearly doesn’t expect a response as he turns and stops upstairs, the uncoordinated clamber of Bones’ paws following him up.

Gripping the edge of the counter, Dean takes a few seconds to just compose and compartmentalise. He needs to sort Dad first; he collects the box from the cupboard and sits cross-legged by his Dad’s face. The good news is that they are mostly superficial cuts and bruises. He’ll need to check his ribs, to make sure nothing’s broken.

After, Dean thinks, swiping an antiseptic wipe over a glob of blood, his tongue pocked out in concentration,  he’ll call Bobby, let him know that him, Cas and Sam will be hanging there for a bit. He won’t phrase it like that, but that’s the gist of the outcome he’s hoping for. If Cas even wants him to be there.

 _Fuck_.

He blinks away the phantom sting in his eyes and carefully places butterfly stitches along the deepest gash. There’s not a lot he can do for the bruising, so he rolls forward onto his knees and shifts his Dad’s body, trying hard to ignore the grunt of pain and lifts his shirt. It’s a mismatch of scars, not many, but enough to be noticeable. The purple-blue of his ribcage makes Dean want to gag, Dad’s one of the best fighters he knows and for him to get his ass handed to him this badly...

Dean licks his chapped lips, resting back on the balls of his feet.

Dad’s phone has fallen onto the carpet, the dried smattering of blood covering the screen. He picks it up, out of pure curiosity, and wipes the red off. Scanning through the contacts, he sees a few choice names. He reaches YED. He glances left to his Dad's still unconscious form, as though John will wake up that second and catch him in the act. A bead of sweat trickles down his brow, his fingers quickly typing the number into his own phone.

His shaky exhale of relief is met with the popping of his joints as he stands; he picks up the used materials and throws the box on the counter. The glass bottle smashes in the bottom of the bin, taking with it the dirty red tissues.

He is aware of the softer patter of feet dashing up the stairs, Sam’s bad attempt to be inconspicuous failing because of his damn big feet. Speaking of, Dean stops and blinks, he’ll need new shoes soon. Kid’s been growing like a weed. Maybe they can make a day of it, he hasn’t hung out with his brother in weeks. His phone in his pocket is a canon ball of worry and doubt, physically burning a hole through the fabric. He heaves his jacket higher, self consciously taking the stairs and closing the door to his room behind him. Yeah, him and Sammy should totally go grab a burger tomorrow.

_He might not get the chance soon_


	23. The Sound Of A Glock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam brotherly bonding.
> 
> Then John, and Azazel, and Gabe, some more John, and Azazel. Yay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holla! So this chapter is kind of important (even though it is kinda a filler too) and the next chapter will be going on at the same time but from Gabe's POV. All will make sense - hopefully - in due time c:
> 
> Anywhoo, let me know what you think :D and thanks for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks this has gotten so far :') ~ I'm a sucker for a Mc Donald's breakfast ok.

Dad is gone when he comes down the next morning. He doesn’t know if he’s surprised or just angry.

The walls of their house seem darker (maybe that comes with the change in the weather) and as Dean walks across the kitchen floor, his toes curling from the cold, to fix himself a cup of coffee, something hard hits him. It feels like a crushing blow, the emotion confounding and pumping his heart wildly in his chest.

 _Cas is coming home soon_.

Cas, his Cas, sweet Cas who wanted to believe in a God that Dean can’t even fathom, and follow the bees and not understand any references in the history of ever. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. Is he his anymore? He never owned Cas, not in that way, but he doesn’t want to lose him either. That would break his new and improved heart – he chuckles half-heartedly at his own joke – pouring the cup of black coffee and leaning against the counter.

Don’t get him wrong, not collapsing after walking up the stairs is great. He’s stopped popping one brand of pills to take another, but he can drive Baby so it’s not so bad. Something still doesn’t feel right, though he supposes his heart doesn’t get anymore _his_ than with his blood pumping through it. He pauses, looking down. His hand is rubbing the scar subconsciously now, great.

Claws scrabble on carpet, and Dean glances up in time to see a rush of golden fur breeze past him. He pours a second cup of coffee, sliding it along the counter right as Sam passes and into his waiting hand. Smirking, he leans back again.

“I am Batman.” Dean mumbles, nodding his head impressed with himself.

Sam grunts something, probably ‘jerk’, and lets Bones into the garden before walking back, cradling the cup between his fingers. He’s picking at the torn skin at the edge of his fingernails; Dean doesn’t know whether that’s a habit he’s picked up lately or if he’s nervous about asking a question. Hell, he’d expected full on lawyer mode about Dad’s alcoholism.

“What’s going on with Dad, Dean?” He looks up through his floppy hair, hazel eyes soft and open-

Dammit. That look should have grown out when he was 6 years old.

“Is it about money?” Sam asks, the cup clatters on the counter, his apparent enthusiasm cutting Dean off as his long legs bound upstairs.

Dean rubs a hand across his face. He hates lying to his little brother. The pound of feet on the stairs echoes back down and Dean looks up to see Sam with a bunch of pamphlets in his hands.

“Jess’ Mom knows someone who needs someone to do a bit of work, nothing big and like,” He starts spreading the papers across the counter, “I’m pretty confident I can get a Scholarship but I want to get a job, start saving and helping out. You and Dad don’t need to baby me Dean, I’m almost 15!”

His eyes run over the words, Stanford, Yale, Harvard, and he swallows the big ol’ lump of pride that is threatening to choke its way out. God, he checks Sam’s face, young, hopeful, and he brings him into a hug. A 15 year old kid shouldn’t be worried about money, or thinking about getting a job to support his big brother and Dad. And ok, maybe Dean babied him a bit; Sam’s all he has left besides Dad. That’s his job: take care of his pain in the ass little brother. Not that little anymore though, his head almost reaches Dean’s shoulder. When did that happen?

“Wow Dean are you ok?” Sam says sarcastically, pushing him away.

He glares at his brother, turning to drain the last of his coffee but thinking better of it, grabbing him and does the only thing acceptable in this situation; he gives his brother a proper noogie.

“Alright bitch,” He pulls away laughing, dodging his brother’s playful swipe of his fist, “Wadda you say we go get a Mc Donald's breakfast? To celebrate your first job?”

A grin spreads across Sam’s face, the apprehension and worry of before stolen away by happiness.

“You’re the best Dean!” Running to his room to get changed, Sam shouts.

“Hey bitch! Don’t forget your dog.”

There’s a thud from above him and Dean smirks. He’ll totally go get the dog in.

“Jerk.” Comes back a muffled cry.

He’s not completely alright with Sam taking up the responsibility of a job; then again Sam is about 50 years more mature than he should be. He gets all his work done on time, spends extra hours studying, and prefers to invite a sweet girl over to read a book instead of what Dean spent his time doing. Dean never was a very good role model. Sam’s going places though, and Dean unlocks the door, calling Bones in.

They play Dad’s old tapes outrageously loud, and pull up to Mc Donalds, Sam with his long hair tied back into an 80’s pony tail, and Dean with a piece of fabric they found tied around his head, their throats sore from belting out the lyrics to Bon Jovi’s ‘Living On A Prayer’. People are shooting them disgusted glances, and for a second Sam seems to notice, so Dean drags him in and slings an arm over his shoulder. It always did wonders for the kid’s confidence when they were younger.

It isn’t massively busy, the regulars and working crew monotonously droning their way through cups of coffee. Sam’s still sniggering as he slides into a booth, and Dean’s expression softens at that. Sammy’s face when he laughs looks so youthful, free, and Dean wants to take a picture. There’s a good chance that Sam will call him a sap if he does, though.

He orders their usual and some extra hash browns, because he can never get enough of that potato crossed goodness. He gets pie too, apple, not his favourite but hardly anywhere actually sells pecan. Piled high with food, he drops the tray in front of his brother and begins to dig in. It’s nice not have to live in constant fear of cholesterol; with a weak heart it’s usually the things you can’t see are the most dangerous.

“Ewww Dean, chew with your mouth closed.” Sam says, between his next bite.

Shovelling in as much as he can, Dean grins, pushing the food through his teeth.

Sam flicks a stray piece of egg white at his face. Now _that’s_ gross.

He gets lost how much time they stay there, eating, chucking small pieces of their food at each other. They leave, and Dean clears their table while Sam takes the keys to the car, wiping his hand with a napkin.

Dean ducks to avoid the inevitably in coming paper projectile, to see Sam being interrogated by a huge woman. He doesn’t mean that in a negative way, but she’s literally flaring her coat and getting up in Sam’s face.

“Excuse me,” Dean says standing as close to her as he can without gagging at the offensive inhale of _waytoomuchmusk_ , “Can I help you?”

She is clearly about to say something, but sizes Dean up. He can see her properly, she’s one of the types of people that picks up on the minute details and makes a fuss out of nothing at all. Sam is frowning, or pouting. It’s hard to tell.

“No.” She turns and walks away, leaving Sam slumped against the passenger door of the Impala.

“Well, that was almost your first brush with trouble Sammy,” Dean ruffles his hair, taking the keys from his hand, “What do you want to do to celebrate _that_?”

His phone vibrates in his pocket, he reaches for it expecting Gabe with another command, or whatever he’s calling his text reports these days.

            _Dad:_

            | _We need to talk_

Well, that can’t mean anything good. He slides it back into his pocket, not bothering to text back. He’s still pissed at his Dad, sue him.

The phone vibrates again. Dean rolls his eyes, climbing into the driver’s seat and puts the keys into the ignition. Sam is flicking through the tapes, trying to find something from ‘this century, Dean’.

He definitely does not expect the ID that is on his screen to be flashing at him.

The colour drains from his face.

            _YED:_

| _We should talk_

He looks around, checking that Sam didn’t see, which is a ridiculous notion because Sam is engrossed on the not so well known art (for him) of the classification of classic rock. Biting his lip, he slides the phone back into his pocket, and he does not text back.

Sam talks animatedly, about this job he’s going to get. Washing dishes and wiping the bar – Dean elects not to say that Ellen could have given him a job doing that, because he knows it’s different working for family – and about how he can’t wait to start helping out more. That justification makes Dean sad. But what can he do? It’s not like he can deter the kid, he’s a stubborn as Dad with twice the justification thinking power.

Plus, he’s got this thing with Yellow Eyes, and when Gabe next calls he’s going to have to be ready to support them too. Fuck, he grips the steering wheel tighter. Sam has put Zeppelin on, his favourite, and the words have only begun to filter in through his dense thoughts.

He parks Baby in the drive, and closes his eyes, feeling the rumble of her engine sooth his chest and bones and mind. He ignores the way Sam is looking at him, because if he makes eye contact and has to tell his brother bullshit it might be the breaking point so many people have been trying to get to for so long.

His phone goes off. The successive vibration meaning it’s a call this time. He cringes as he opens their front door, expecting John to be there, his face a mesh of injuries and his eyes a cold shadow of what they used to be. There’s only Bones, jumping and wagging his too long tail, tongue attacking him before starting on Sam. They head in opposite directions; Sam to the living room with Bones right under his feet and Dean to his room.

He damn near clocks his Dad in the eye when a rough hand pulls on his sleeve.

“Dad?” He hisses, because John evidently doesn’t want Sam to see him like this.

“Dean,” His Dad drops his arm, “Whatever you’re thinking... Son you can’t. It’s a trap, they’re baiting you.”

Dean knows what he’s talking about, and he’s not negotiating this.

“You can get out now Dad, look I’m fine.” Gesturing up and down himself, Dean winces. He isn’t really alright  - another thing he’s lying to his Dad about.

“That’s,” His Dad makes a frustrated face, “They’ll hurt you, and Sam.”

“Oh, but it’s ok for them to beat the shit out of you, yeah?” Dean shouts back, raising his voice a little, but shrinking under his Dad’s glare.

“I lost Mary, Dean. I _won’t_ lose you too, or Sam.” He exhales loudly through his nose, “They’re using me to get to you, and I’m asking you as your father-“

Dean shakes his head, his Dad doesn’t get that it’s _because_ he’s his father he has to do something. He can’t just stand back and let the bastard that killed his Mom take his Dad too. They’ve already given too much.

“This is an order Dean.”

“I’m not a soldier Dad.” He carries on up the stairs, legs like jelly as the front door slams.

If Sam didn’t know Dad was home, he did now.

Thankfully, he doesn’t hear the roar of the Impala. That’ll make life easier for him, marginally.

He grabs his phone, grimacing at the 3 missed calls from Gabe. Calling back, he quietly shuts his bedroom door.

“Hello,” He says, all in business mode.

 “Darling! How’s the wife? The kids?” Balthazar chimes, where he gets his cheer from having to spend so much time with Gabe Dean wishes he knew.

“The Sam’s are fine, and how many times do I have to tell you that Jo is really not interested and could kick your ass without batting an eye?” Dean twists his back, earning a satisfying crack, dropping onto the side of his mattress.

“I always did love a challenge, Dean. Anyway, Gabriel’s back from taking a dump so I’ll pass you over now.”

Dean scowls. Too much information doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Deano, buddy! Ok, so pleasantries aside, I have something I need to tell you.”

Taking to his feet, Dean clutches the phone to his ear so hard he can hear the cheap plastic squeak and crack.

“What is it?”

Gabriel’s tone is, clipped. He’s not cheerful, not dreary, he just sounds... Nervous, in his own unique brand of it.

“Cassie might not exactly possibly think that you’re alive.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“Dean I really don’t want to have to spell this out for you,” Gabriel sighs, Dean’s mind is still tripping over itself, “When I spoke to Cas, he asked me about you. Now at the time you were not one of my priorities and I told him I didn’t know; I have no idea what’s going to happen when we get there but you are going to be one of my big selling points in convincing him to come back.”

His breathing suddenly feels shitty, like before, but this is different because there is nothing physically wrong with him causing this, it’s all emotions boiling in his blood. That, and Gabriel talks way too much.

“Get to the point Gabriel.” He snaps.

He instantly regrets it, because Gabe is trying to help. Maybe not him, but Cas, and Cas is higher up on his priorities than the sting of being dead to Cas. The burning, aching, thrum of his heart beat.

“I need you to answer the phone, when I call, whenever that may be.”

“Done.” Dean answers, distractedly pulling a white box from beneath his bed. He places it on top of the covers, free hand delicately swiping the layer of dust off and onto the floor.

“Is that it?” He says, removing the lid and sitting back beside the open box.

“Sure is Deano, I’ll check in later.”

“Cool.”

He places the phone on his bed. It’s as though he’s slipped back into soldier mode; communications shut off, threats determined, point of action decided. Glancing at the unobtrusive box, he takes the glinting metal object out. He runs his fingers reverently over the silver, the pads of his fingertips feeling and remembering each groove, each engraved letter and pattern.

He checks the magazine, pulling back the barrel, the electricity coursing through him as he holds it in his hands.

            _YED:_

| _We should talk, now. Dad says hi, by the way._

The click of the safety ricochets around his room. There’s a scuffling noise behind his door, a flash of hazel eyes.

Dean freezes, the gun dropping onto the bed.


	24. Invoke Me Against

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe and Balthy, the new dynamic duo
> 
> and you know, stuff happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY FOR HOW LONG THIS TOOK. *heavy breathing*
> 
> And I realise that some things may be anticlimatic//you want more reactions!!11!, well we'll see some of Cas' POV soonish.
> 
> Mari, yes, the character is named after you. And my inside joke, you see it? 
> 
> Please comment guys! I love hearing what you think, and I'm sorry there will probably be an abundance of mistakes. ((that i will fix eventually))

Balthazar is busy; doing whatever the hell it is his oddball ass of a brother actually does. Meanwhile, Gabriel twirls the tip of his straw around his drink, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car – it’s coke, don’t worry, he isn’t about to drive off the road when operation Flight is a go. (That’s also not what he’s calling it, he frowns, he can’t think of a better name at the moment.)

His dog, Chico, is curled up into a tight ball in the back, his scruffy ears twitching occasionally at his slurp. The little Jack Russell had been a consolation prize when he and Kali had broken up. She wanted the car, he wanted the dog. It wasn’t a hard decision to make for him, he could buy 10 new cars, but the companionship of Chico was priceless.

Castiel used to mock him for his preference of canine friendship, Sam seemed perpetually worried whenever Gabe had a party. That’s the thing about Chico, loyal to a fault. He doesn’t run away, doesn’t poop out of his corner of the garden, he doesn’t turn down affection.

But - though his dog has got him grinning sappily in his rear view at the moment - the time has come to free the bird from the cage. To take the cat from the bag. Break the bank.

They’re going to bust Cas out, preferably within the week. God knows what clusterfuck the Winchester brothers might get themselves into before then. Seriously, Gabriel is surprised those two numnuts haven’t strangled each other, or someone else, to death yet.

Their plan is well, simple. Really simple. It goes as follows:

-          find Cas

-          take Cas

-          hide Cas

Gabriel does enjoy keeping things as least complicated as possible. Chuckling, he shakes his head; of course he knows it’s going to be a large amount more plan and action than that, which is why he called in Balthazar. There isn’t anything that between the two of them they haven’t done, or at least tried. Balthy once talked his way into a comedy club, and managed to pull off an act so that Gabe could steal half the alcohol from the back. Gabe, using his powers of persuasion, talked Cassie out of getting arrested when he was caught sitting atop of the library because he ‘was trying to find a better light’.

And, despite how they differ as people and as brothers, that is how you can tell a Novak. If there’s something weird, blunt, or downright illegal going down, the probability of it being one of the middle Novak’s is almost 100 to 1.

He’s waiting in the car for Balthazar to finish... Gabe still doesn’t know what he’s doing. Reverently, he runs his fingers over the dash of his Audi R8. What? He’s classy, and it’s a damn fine car. He can joke all he wants, but after two more minutes of admiring what good money can buy, he turns his mind back to the problem at hand.

They know where this dump is, not that it’s that much of a shitpit, and getting in unnoticed is a no go. Small town, isolated location, guards and security to bite you in the ass – literally – sneaking in is not an option they have on the cards. So, he makes a call to his new friend. He’s not over having friends 10 years younger than him, he’s so _old_.

“Charlie, my sweet cherry pie!” He crows, the familiar tapping of keys filling the other side of the line.

“Gabe, I don’t bat for your team and even if I did, you’re a bit too... Yoda for my tastes.”

“Mock my height, you will.”

His terrible impression is worth her bark of a laugh. Charlie is a sweet girl, and her skills are, from an aristocrat’s point of view, chilling.

“What do you need from me you dork?” She manages, stifling her laughter.

“I need an in. You saw that place right? They’ve got to have caterers, or plumbers, or something.” He leans forward in his enthusiasm and slumps back into the chair. Balthazar is nowhere in sight. “Something that me and Balthy can use to get close.”

The rhythmic typing fills his ears again. It’s oddly comforting but maddeningly repetitive and he has to resort to scratching behind Chico’s ears, disturbing him from slumber. The old dog yawns, nuzzling his hand with his cold nose, and Gabe ends up being distracted from his call with Charlie.

“Ok, so basically, I ain’t got squat. They have courses for pretty much everything, and besides the essentials the students provide for themselves,” She pauses, “This could be good... How well do you know your flowers?”

Balthazar finally, with the smallest bag possible for how much time it took him, climbs in the car and they communicate through raised eyebrows.

“We can sure as hell learn.”

“Hm,” She says, as sceptical as always, “Look, I want Cas back as much as the next guy, but my involvement stops past the computer. I can give you the number of the woman in charge?”

He resists the urge to whine, or pout. Just about.

“Charlieeeeee,” He groans.

Silence. Absolute, so much so that he has to check that the call is even still connected. It is.

“Ok ok,” Conceding, he pinches his brow, “You’ve been great, can you text me the number?”

“Sure thing. And hey, you bring Cas home ok?”

“That’s the plan,” He says more with sarcasm than confidence.

Learning involves a delayed trip to the library, because they had to stop for gas and Twinkies first. They rent audio tapes (with the library card Gabe had fished from the back of his wallet, that was covered in numerous mystery substances and his messy 15 year old scrawl had been rubbed off during it’s time back there), neither of them overly enthralled at essentially having to read.

So, with Gardeners 101 in the disk player, Balthazar and Chico slipping into sleep, in all fairness Balth was up all night, Gabe pulls out of Lawrence onto the highway heading east. The road is long, stretching out infinitely in front of him; the person on the tape is droning on about seeding times and seasonal flowers. He keeps one hand on the wheel and one dipping in and out of his bag of candy, watching as the numbers on the milometer slowly click up.

It’s about 3 hours later when he has to stop for a break, and Balthazar has managed to sleep the whole time and do nothing else. He’s basically a glorified dog, Gabe smirks, turning up the volume so the man is shouting about the flowers beginning with the letter C. Both Balth and Chico startle, Balthazar with a litany of cuss words thrown in Gabe’s direction and Chico with a disgruntled low growl. He rolls his eyes at them both, tapping his leg to get the mutt to follow.

“We need to call Dean, and,” He double checks the name next to the number from Charlie, “Mari?” He throws the phone at Balthazar who flails to catch it, “We’re hitting the little boy’s room.”

 

With a heavy sigh, Balthazar watches his brother skip away, having scooped his fleabag from the floor. What he sees in that dog, Balthazar muses, deciding to give Cassie’s man of the hour a call. It rings, for an irritating length of time, with no answer. He tries again, and still receives Dean’s answer phone:

‘This is Dean Winchester’s cell, if you’re here, you must know what to do.’

He sighs heavily, the things he will do for his brother.

Instead of trying Deano, he copies the other number and hits call.

“Saint Amabilis Catholic College, Mari speaking, how may God help you?”

He holds back the bite of sarcasm, having bible studies shoved down your throat has the tendency to leave you a little bitter when people suggest that God is the answer. He respects it, for the sake of Cassie and others, but it makes him want to purge himself... In women and alcohol.

“Afternoon darling-“

“It’s uh actually-“

“Me and my brother are in the business of flowers, all kinds. Love them.” He talks over her, barely registering her at all really, getting lost in his own silver tongue, “We happened to pass over your website, and I must say we were infatuated with your gardens; we were wondering, what with the summer season coming up, whether we would be able to come and maintain your wonderful, amazing...” He gets stumped on what he was going to say.

“Flowers?” She offers, her voice kind.

“Yes! So, would you be willing to let us come up to your humble abode?”

“Well, we have been meaning to-“

“Marvellous, we should be free within the next few days or so. Can I expect to see you then?” He stares out at the diner in front of the parked car, licking his lips at the gravitas of the pile of pancakes he can see from here.

Gabriel would never turn down something so sweet. Thinking of Gabriel, the short fucker has been gone for ages.

“That should be fine, but I’ll be in touch.”

He ignores her hesitance and thanks her, scrolling back up to Dean’s number. He calls and Dean doesn’t pick up. If he’s honest, he’s kind of hurt. They’re the big brother’s after all; doing all the dirty work and Dean can’t pick up his bloody phone? What an idiot.

Phone in hand, he turns it absently against his bent leg, waiting for either Gabriel or Dean to get back to him first. The ringtone vibrates his hand and he answers with a smirk in his voice. Dean is probably one of the easiest people he’s ever met to antagonise, and he wouldn’t be a Novak if he didn’t try.

“Hello,” Dean says, his voice radiating tension and business like formality. Balthazar is once again quite nearly offended by his offhandedness.

 “Darling! How’s the wife? The kids?” He chimes anyway, arms stretching out to gesticulate his words

“The Sam’s are fine, and how many times do I have to tell you that Jo is really not interested and could kick your ass without batting an eye?” Dean fires back, and Balthazar is utterly amused by the fact that he really isn’t joking. At least Cassie has finally surrounded himself with interesting people.

Gabriel swanks back from the toilets, with his dog under one arm and a bag in the other. Tilting his head Balthazar points to the bag and then to himself, frowning slightly when Gabe seems to grin wider.

“I always did love a challenge, Dean. Anyway, Gabriel’s back from taking a dump so I’ll pass you over now.”

The scowl is loud enough to hear, although Balthy all but chucks the phone back to Gabe, snatching the paper bag from his outstretched hand. His brother chuckles, sliding back into the driver’s seat, building up before excitedly hollering down the phone.

 

“Deano, buddy! Ok, so pleasantries aside, I have something I need to tell you.” It comes out hard, forced, and not nearly as happy as he intended it to be. Then again, he was basically chickening out like a coward by holding this off until now.

There’s scuffling in the background on Dean’s end, and Gabe distractedly pets Chico’s head, tickling softly under his chin.

“What is it?”

Gabriel’s tone is, clipped. He’s not cheerful, not dreary, he just sounds... Nervous, in his own unique brand of it.

“Cassie might not exactly possibly think that you’re alive.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“Dean I really don’t want to have to spell this out for you,” Gabriel sighs, trying to make it out as though Dean’s just being incredibly dense, “When I spoke to Cas, he asked me about you. Now at the time you were not one of my priorities and I told him I didn’t know; I have no idea what’s going to happen when we get there but you are going to be one of my big selling points in convincing him to come back.”

 “Get to the point Gabriel.” He snaps.

Gabe stops, totally thrown by how _done_ Dean sounds. Things are pretty shitty right now, yeah, but they’re closer to getting Cas back than they have been and, not that he’s looking forward to seeing him and his brother fawn over each other, it’ll be good for both of them. They should be happy, Gabriel settles on. Why he has to be some kind of messenger is a bit of a piss take, however.

“I need you to answer the phone, when I call, whenever that may be.”

“Done.” Dean answers, quickly. Too quickly for Gabriel’s liking but he doesn’t have choice. “Is that it?” He says, clearly preoccupied by something.

“Sure is Deano, I’ll check in later.” Gabriel decides not to push it.

“Cool.”

Sighing, Gabriel pats Chico’s head once more, then lifts him up and places him into the back seats. He curls up, like before, and flops down with a huff that only dogs can convey, as though they have the whole world counting on them. Sometimes he wishes his problems were limited to when he’s going to be fed next. Speaking of, Balthy is busy stuffing his face with the bagel he’d picked up for him. Send an American to Britain and you can take away his accent, but you can’t take away his love for good old, grease packed, American food.

There are a good 1,500 miles between them and the Catholic college, and he trusts that Balth got a hold of the person in charge of horticulture. He turns the ignition, and hopes that within a few days, he’ll be staring at furious blue eyes and messy hair again. He misses his little bro.

It ends up taking them a few days, extended breaks – because Balthazar expects to be treated like a pampered princess and Chico is no better – and then when they actually _reach_ Wade, Maine, it had taken them even longer to track down a temporary van and jumpsuits for them both.

But, with 4 days gone and a few apologetic calls to Mari, they’re pulling up the unnamed road that apparently leads to the college. There aren’t any signs, and they’re relying on the doubtful knowledge of the local people. The scenery is idyllic, trees reaching up to the sky and spreading around the dirt track they’re rumbling up for at least the last half a mile. The woodlands are dense, thick brush obscuring the view any further than past a few bushes.

“Well, they definitely know how to hide the place,” Balthazar drawls, shifting from slumber again. All this sleep he’s been catching up on, Balth won’t stop partying for a month when they get back.

“Cassie never does things half way, does he?” Gabriel replies, slowing down around a tricky bend.

“Still, we know he has good taste in men now,” Balth hums and Gabe is close to swerving at those words.

He side eyes him, incredulously.

“What, one day and 3 missed calls and old hunk of meat gets your seal of approval? Just like that?” He huffs, kind of infuriated he felt the same the first time he met him. Doesn’t mean he can’t prank him, or Sammykins for that matter.

“Please,” Balth rolls his eyes for the 100th time since they went on this road trip, “He’s love sick and gross without Cassie there.”

“It gets worse,” Gabe agrees.

The tree line breaks away, revealing a steep hill and a muddy track. He momentarily pauses, shrugs and shifts into gear, bursting up the hill with more speed than necessary.

“Holy shit,” Balth leans further into the glass of the van to get a better look at the fucking mansion seemingly coming out of nowhere.

It’s huge, the whole place is. It makes Gabe’s own house look like a bathroom stall, that shabby too; Gabe has to check himself to stop gawking. Chico rises from the spare seat next to him, his paws scrabbling at across his legs to get purchase on the ledge.

Parking on the lawn, a rooky move in reality, Gabe and Balth jump out, cracking the windows on the two sides to give nose room for Chico.

He fiddles with his jumpsuit, which feels weird to be wearing and he and Balthy share another look. Of all the batshit crazy stuff they’ve done, 25 hours of flower knowledge on a mission to kidnap their brother is right up there with the craziest.

“You ready?” Gabe asks, and thankfully Balthy doesn’t reply because he isn’t sure who he was asking.

He checks the name tag once more; strides after Balthazar, his shoes crunching on the gravel in unison.

The latch to the front door is huge, something that would be more fitting on a castle, and it clunks heavily under Balthazar’s touch. This shocks a woman at the desk, her warm face blinking up in confusion.

“I take it you are the absentee gardeners.” She says, voice shy of cynical.

“At your service,” Gabe gives his most charming smile, “We got caught up on business yesterday.”

Looking up over her glasses, he gives her a distinctly unimpressed glare, “You said you’d be here tomorrow every day for the past three days,” but she smiles, “I’m glad you’ve finally showed up.”

Quickly picking up her phone, she calls some guy called ‘Cain’ and explains that he will come to show them around. They wait in silence, Mari obviously has things to do, so Balth looks down at his clothing with distaste, and Gabe coils the trowel from his belt around his fingers.

“You boys sure took your time,” A man grumbles, his lips pressed into a thin line, “I’m in charge of the flowers here, so if you’d like to follow me...”

The man is old, his beard and hair greying and fraying out of control in a way that’s almost Elvis. His clothes are worn and loose, working man’s clothes, and there is a glint in his eye that suggests more than his outward appearance can.

He shows them around, all the flowerbeds and hedges, the trees that need tending. It’s by the next bush of hawthorns, with bright pink flowers just starting to bloom, that he sees him.

Little Castiel, eyes chasing a bee with the same rapt attention he always had. He’s sitting on a picnic blanket, two sandwiches and a blanket across his legs. Gabe pulls on Balthazar’s hand, who is listening to Cain talk about what flowers are best for the colonies of bees and what needs to be planted for the next season. Carrying on as if he didn’t have people following him, Cain speaks animatedly about the species and slowly Gabe and Balth fall behind.

“Psst,” Gabe whispers, remaining behind one on the bushes with Balthazar on the other side. “Hey, Cas.”

On edge, Castiel perks up. He then stares at his sandwich accusingly, like it had personally insulted him or something.

“Cas,” Balthazar tries more urgently, because they only have so much time before Cain notices that they are no longer following him.

His eyes search the bushes, and Gabe sticks his hand round the side to wave. Through the cracks in the leaves and twigs of the bush, Gabe can see Cas stumble back, scrambling to his feet. Face pale, Cas tilts his head, in a familiar gesture that makes Gabe’s heart clench, remaining stood, hands fisted in that oversized trenchcoat.

“Castiel,” Gabe moves round, arms open wide to his brother, Balthy comes out behind him.

Cas looks like he is going to throw up. Or punch something, with how tightly his fists are clasped.

“Cas?” Gabe hedges more hesitantly, when his brother seems to break out of staring at them blankly.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Cas presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. Balth nudges him, mouthing ‘what the hell?’ and Gabe shrugs in return. Out of nowhere, Cas decides to find his voice.

“Anna! Anna please come back, it’s... I can’t-“ Cas cuts himself off, wrenching himself away when Gabe goes to reassure him.

“Cassie, it’s us. Balthazar, Gabriel?” Balth gestures between them, and Gabriel looks mildly horrified.

“Oh Cas, what have they done to you?”

“They’re not real.” Cas says sternly, “None of them are real. I’m imagining this.” He takes a deep breath and visibly composes. Letting his hands fall from his face, Cas makes a strangled sound when he sees that Gabe and Balthy are still there. “What do you want from me?” Cas shouts, head thrown back to the sky.

“Hey, hey Cas,” Gabe reaches forward again, hand smoothing the wrinkle in the shoulder of that ridiculous coat, “It’s us, we’ve come to get you out of here.”

“Don’t you understand, _you’re not real._ ”

“Castiel what’s going,” A woman bursts round a large tree trunk, which had been shielding them from company, “on.”

“Oh bloody marvellous.”

Gabriel can’t find words to meet Balthy’s. The woman, is remarkably, so beautiful, her face is just like-

“Anna?”

It comes out choked, a garbled version of the word. Impossible. Anna was, _is_ , lying 6ft under in a field that’s a long lost memory. Anna’s gone. She’s not standing in front of Cas, her soft features and warm red hair caught in the bright light of the sun, such a serene setting amongst nature. Birds flutter in the trees, drawing Cas’ attention as though none of them are really there.

_He doesn’t believe we are._

“Gabriel? Balthazar?” Her voice is breathless, disbelief lining each syllable of their name.

He doesn’t get what she’s so surprised about; she’s looking pretty good for being dead.

“Hey maybe they’ve got Dad stashed here too,” Gabriel mocks, pausing dramatically, half expecting his old man to burst through that bunch of bright anemones. Nothing happens, not even a breeze passes through the flowers surrounding them, and he shrugs, “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

“You are not the gardeners.”

Anna freezes, sentence caught behind her lips. Her gaze tracks from Balthazar, to Cain, to Gabe. Still rocking on his feet, white top and trousers hanging off his lithe frame, Cas carries on oblivious.

“Cas?” Balthazar tries once more, and Gabe can feel his urgency. Cain will no doubt tell them to leave and then what will they do?

“I don’t fight anymore brothers,” He says, letting Anna lead him away with a strange air of ghostly impartiality about it, “I follow the bees.”

Casting his eyes down, Gabe lets the roll of his stomach keep him on balance, because really, the fact that he feels sick is the only proof he has that this actually happened. His sister is alive, his brother’s lost his marbles and a century old man is standing silently behind them. On the discarded blanket, is a small packet of honey with a scrawled name, hard pressed where a ballpoint pen refused to write on plastic.

“Who the hell is Crowley?” He says, mind absently running over the fact that oh yeah, HIS SISTER’S NOT DEAD.

He turns back to Balthazar, who hasn’t said a word and is staring at the space between the trees where Anna and Cas had left.

“That’s not your main concern right now,” there’s a large hand on his shoulder, and his legs feel weak, his head heady. He lets himself be lead away, Balthazar next to him, across the field that suddenly drops to a hill, and at the bottom a house.

Neither of them resist, argue, his authority here, and they must both be thinking how screwed they are.

The house is homely, for a creepy thing at the bottom of a hill next to a mansion. Inside is rudimentarily furnished, all oaks and wood and rustic. There’s a fire place, crackling with orange flames, the glow lighting the room and heat rolling through the walls of the building. He plants them both down on the worn, yet comfortable, sofa.

“You should sit,” Cain says, unnecessarily, moving around the small coffee table, “You boys drink tea?”

Balthazar nods, his head lolling long after it should. He’s dazed, stung by the same numbing agent that Gabe can feel coursing through him. Time must pass, a flash before his eyes, because the next thing he knows some lethal herbal concoction is wafting from beneath his nose and he’s sipping at the steaming liquid.

“Who is he to you?” Cain asks, sitting down opposite them.

“Brother.” Mindlessly, Balthazar replies.

“And the girl?” His eyes flicker over them, gauging their reaction to the question.

“Dead sister,” Gabe chuckles humourlessly. And then he can’t stop the chuckles. It’s hysterical. I mean, of course Mom would send Cassie to the same place as Anna; leaving him to question how long Mom has known that Anna was alive - this whole time? – or you know, this is some big coincidence. Maybe it has something to do with Dad?

Anyway, he’s coughing up tea because it’s so funny, and Cain is concernedly raising his eyebrows. Balth slaps him on the back a few times, to clear his chest, and once over the head for good measure.

Composed, he looks up, swallows, and glances to his brother.

“Thanks,” His throat is raw, and the sincerity isn’t there.

“You’re welcome,” Balthy says back.

Cain regards them, calculating, his eyes never leaving either Novak. Gabe doesn’t care for a staring match, so he takes in the lack of personal touches, no photos no frames, on the walls, just a bee suit hung up behind the door.

“People are more like bees than you realise,” He says, randomly, and Gabe is ready to shut off because this day...

Gabe’s inner monologue groans and curls up into a ball.

“When a bee misses home, he follows the scent.” Getting up, Cain collects their empty cups and centres them on the table, “Once he is home, to his queen, he is content. There is no place for him elsewhere.”

Gabriel is equal measures stifling a yawn and holding back a snort, when Cain meets his gaze, square, cold.

“Castiel is not home here.”

Balthazar glances at him.

They leave Cain’s, a new plan already formed. The Novak’s don’t trust him, at all, a strange dude who lives alone and tends to bees on a secluded boarding college? Doesn’t exactly sing trustworthy. Unfortunately, the options they had have sucker punched down to 0, and they have the added complication of Anna.

She can’t be left behind.

 _Us Novak’s have got to stick together right, Sammy?_ A memory whispers like sin in his ear.

Anna got left behind, though didn’t she?

That night, Anna walks Cas down to Cain’s. The van, with Chico, Gabe and Balthy is waiting. Forcing everyone into the front of the cab, much to the displeasure of both Anna and Cas, they pull away, leaving St. Amabilis as nothing more than a falling pinprick above the horizon of the hill.

 “Cassie, come on, are you going to ignore us _all_ the way back?”

Castiel blinks blankly. Chico is on his lap, happy to snuggle down in the crease between his legs. Beside him, Anna rubs absently at his arm. It’s not sunk in yet that his little sister, _dead_ sister, is sitting beside him in this van. Fucking reality check needed, he shakes his head to dispel some of the _what-the-fuck-_ haze that’s lingering there.

“Look, we’ll get Deano on the phone, we were on a tight schedule,” Gabe says distractedly, checking his mirrors to see whether they’re being followed. Hopefully, if Cain didn’t go back on his word, they should have a few hours before the jig is up and Mom gets called.

“Right,” Balthy says, reaching over to fish Gabe’s phone from his pocket. “We’ll call the bloody kid now.”

Balthazar unlocks the screen, scrolls through his contacts and reaches Shortstuff. His eyes flick to Gabe’s for confirmation who nods an emphatic ‘yes’. Setting the phone to loud speaker, they wait. The sound of the dialling tone drowns the silence, nervous anticipation hanging off all their weary faces.

“G-gabe,”

And oh fuck, that’s not Dean’s voice.

It’s fucking Sam.

“Sammy?” Ok, Dean would kill him for that because ‘only I get to call him Sammy’ but by the sound of Sam, something has gone wrong. Brilliant.

“Dean is...”

They don’t get to hear the rest of Sam’s sentence as the phone is roughly knocked from Balthazar’s hand, the speaker turned off and a once broody Cas is livid, his eyes wild, with the receiver clutched to his ear.

“It’s alright, Sam. Talk to me.”


	25. The Fire and Smoke In Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deano's time to shine.
> 
> Set at the same time as Cas and Anna's great escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep deprived mistakes are to be fixed
> 
> Please comment guys c:

Standing slowly, he fumbles blindly to slide the gun under his pillow, never taking his eyes off the door. He steps carefully, the floorboards creaking with each padded step of his socked feet, the edge of the big toe on his right foot brushing against the stiff fabric of the carpet.

“Sammy?” He calls out, swinging the door open.

Dean’s heart all but flakes in two, his little brother is slumped against the wooden railing; his too long legs folded awkwardly on the step below. Fist clenched on top of his knee, Sam doesn’t look at Dean as he advances on him, dropping silently by his side. Neither of them speak – Dean doesn’t really know what to say – so he waits for the inevitable break down from his brother. Or shouting match. Either way, he’s glad Dad isn’t here.

The swallow from Sam is audible, and yet he still hasn’t met Dean’s eyes. Dropping his head Sam turns, minutely, eyes red rimmed, with a fat tear threatening to spill out.

“You gunna shoot someone, Dean?” He says miserably, and Dean curses himself for being the reason that there is no more fight left in that voice. It’s flat, exhausted, drained.

“Course not Sammy, it’s not even loaded.” He shoves his brother’s shoulder gently, dislodging the tear, and his eyes track its messy path down his pale cheeks.

“What’s going on?” Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, he just stares at him, waiting.

Dean has to look away. He can’t keep that up, it’s the same thing that Cas used to do and it’s creepy as hell. At least Sam wasn’t bitchfacing, he is simply... staring.

“Dad’s in trouble isn’t he?” Anger now, disappointment, evident in Sam’s tone, “I swear Dean, it’s not your responsibility to sort him out-“

“It _is_ my problem Sam!” He explodes in one sentence, and then he breathes out. “It’s my fault.” His chest is heaving, and he peaks at Sam through the fingers that are covering his face.

“But it’s not mine, right?” Sam huffs gently, the hint of a bitchface taking over his features.

With a sigh, Dean casts his eyes over the bare walls of the stairs, the dust covering the glass lampshade above them, and the faint outline of paw prints on the cream carpet of the landing. He inhales again and stands up. He’s the big brother, it’s his responsibility, and this actually _isn’t_ Sammy’s problem. It’s his mess, that he has to fix, because if he doesn’t his Dad will die and then where will that leave them? Sam will blame him, as he should, for taking away their Dad; he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to deal with that.

“You’re going to Bobby’s. Pack a bag.”

Scrambling to his feet, Sam grabs a hold of his arm yanking him hard enough to make him stop walking back to his room.

“What about you?” He’s frowning, shadows from the small window above them casting all over his face.

“I’ve got to help Dad,” He shakes his brother off.

He knows Sam isn’t following now, isn’t even trying to stop him.

“You don’t need a gun for that, Dean.”

Instantly, Dean’s hand freezes on his door handle. He grips the ridged metal, hard enough that sweat starts to accumulate on his palm, knuckles whitening where the underside is digging into his hand.

“Yeah, I do.” He admits quietly, the creak of the stairs already marking that Sam has left.

Inside the confines of his room, Dean closes the door. He lets his full weight back into the flimsy wooden frame, banging his head once, twice, against it, until a dull throb mingles with the ache in his chest.

God, it hurts still. Suddenly, the clothing he wears feels constricting, like the faded fabric is squeezing in on him. He stumbles forward in his haste to remove it, tripping over something on the floor while the shirt is half over his head. He pulls it off, at last, letting it fall from his hand to the ground. His chest is heaving; the beads of sweat trickling down his rising chest, down the stark outline of his ribs, across the sunken mound of his abs.

For the first time, in a long while, he takes a look at himself in the mirror. He’s still handsome, rugged with the addition of a few days stubble. But since he left hospital – where he lost an almost substantial amount of weight on the crap they serve – the stress and disquiet had made him lose his appetite. So when he does eat, he fucking gorges. Burgers, bacon, tacos, everything that the fast food restaurants have to offer, but as soon as it’s just him and Sam, he picks at his food, whereas Sammy inhales his plate load. He doesn’t know where the kid puts it all.

His fingers skim over his ribs, goose bumps appearing on his pale flesh, flourishing under the starved touch. He hasn’t thought about cracking one out since Cas left. Hasn’t looked in the mirror and desired. They travel up; coarse fingertips skimming over the faded bruises from his hospital stint, and end up at the scabbing flesh that leads directly to his heart. He looks up, to see his reflection in the mirror doing the same, the angry red line transecting his torso. Face wrinkling in repulsion he drops his arm back to his side. Even his muscle tone has gone downhill, literally leaving the majority of his intimidation to bulky clothing and the gun.

He picks up a clean plain tee, wraps a flannel over the top; he changes into jeans, ones that fit properly and aren’t either too big or too small. He puts a jacket on over the top and his gaze fall back to the pillow.

The gun feels heavy in his hand, burning guilt into his skin. Placing it in the back of his pants, he checks himself back out in the mirror. The man staring back at him looks old, older than he’s ever thought himself to be. He fidgets, moving the shirts, pulling up his jeans, checking and re-checking the gun. His phone vibrates.

            _YED_

| _I’m leaving you a gift_

Panic rises in his chest and he has to physically restrain himself from throwing the cheap plastic at his wall in frustration.

“Sammy,” He shouts, taking the stairs with rediscovered agility, “Get your things we’re going.”

Sam’s already waiting by the door, Bones on his leash and backpack hanging off the side of one shoulder. He’s glaring at him, but Dean hasn’t got time to worry about what his little brother is thinking. It’s not safe here.

He hates having dogs in the car. It was a rule, for a long, long, long time. Longer than he can remember. Then Sam wouldn’t stop harping on about _getting_ a dog, and Dean caved. Baby is suffering now, somewhat, as Sam climbs into the car, scooting the seat back so that Bones fits by his feet.

The drive is tense, and Dean is starting to feel so paranoid, he checks every car they pass at stop lights, checks his mirrors in case anyone is following. He forgets to put music on, too, and he can see Sam’s bitchface gradually growing darker and darker the closer they get to Bobby’s.

It’s a relief to pull up at Singer Salvage Yard, and he all but bundles Sam and Bones from the car. Bobby comes out to greet them, and he flicks his gaze between Dean and Sam. There isn’t much secret in the fact that Bobby is pretty much their Dad; he blames himself for not stopping John from leaving, for not keeping a closer eye on them. So, that grumpy eyebrow scrunch is the equivalent of ‘you’re in shit boy’, because Sam has no doubt called Bobby and said something’s up.

“Sam, take that damn dog inside.” Bobby says, stopping Dean from following. It’s not like he’s in a rush to get back and find what Azazel has left.

There’s a few moments where they hold each other’s gaze, and God Dean hopes that Bobby isn’t going to break down. He couldn’t take that, it’s all too much already.

“Your idiot of a Dad has gotten himself in trouble again, huh?” He gruffs out, looking Dean over.

He clenches his fist and bites back the retort. Bobby’s only trying to help, but in reality, neither he nor Sam knows how much saving Dean cost John.

“I guess,” His phone vibrates against his leg as he walks past Bobby. The gaze he can feel on his back is burning through him and he plays with his phone in his pocket, toying with the idea that it’s just Charlie asking to hang out, or Gabe to say that they’re already back.

            _YED_

| _You’re not home? I’m wounded. I put your gift through the letterbox. See you soon Deano._

He shivers at the name, imagining the shadow of the person that killed his Mom typing that out. What the hell could he have left? A bomb? Started another fire? _Fuck_. Tapping the end of his phone against his head, he leans against the doorway. Of course, Bones and Sam are sat at the table watching him.

“Dean?” The chair scrapes back as Sam moves, and he backs away.

“Gotta go pick Dad up,” Dean says, hastily retreating.

“Where are you _really_ going?” Sam shouts, the sounds of Bobby’s heavy footsteps backing him up.

“Everything alright here, boys?” He says, and even though Dean isn’t facing either of them he can imagine their mirror expressions of concern.

“I’m heading to pick Dad up,” He walks deliberately to Bobby’s electronics drawer, pulling it out with excessive force, plugging his phone into the socket. It lights up, his background of Cas asleep in his bed taunting him in a fuzzy glow. He swallows. “And then we’re ordering take out.”

The slam of the door as he leaves shatters his resolve, and he is well aware he couldn’t look back at his family. He might lie everyday of his life, but he’s officially reached his limit. Whatever happens today, he glances up to the waning light, that’s it, he’s done. He can’t take it anymore, physically.

Exhaling a shaky breath, he puts Baby into gear and backs out of Bobby’s. It’s like he’s on factory settings; he doesn’t realise where his subconscious has taken him until he’s blinking, the archway of the cemetery looming over him. A second of indecision passes over him – he figures that he’s here now – before he’s putting Baby into park and climbing out. It’s windy, for the time of year, and he wraps himself tighter in his jacket. Somehow, cemeteries simultaneously make him feel unstoppable and young, like he’s 8 years old, standing over the freshly dug square, hours prior to their 2 year road trip.

The gates are open, and he takes measured steps, memorised, along the rows of the dead. It seems surreal to think that maybe he’ll get buried here, if there’s anything left of him to bury.

His feet carry him all the way to the polished stone, standing resilient in front of him. Impressions of knees and shoes are visible in the hardened mud, and he chokes on his breath. Sammy has been here. He remembers a lot about his Mom, her blonde hair, apple pies, cut crusts on PB&J. Sammy though; he’s only got the basics. The strength of her hugs, the sound of her voice, the smile on her face.

He shouldn’t be here.

Driving home in record time (he’s surprised he hadn’t got pulled over) he arrives at their house. It’s in one piece and he jogs up to the door, quenching his anxiety with the knowledge that Dad has been with this asshat for hours now.

The door gets jammed on an object inside and Dean holds his breath, expecting a series of explosions to follow. However, he soon realises that he just looks like an idiot, or maybe someone trying to break into the house, so he squeezes through the gap, stooping to pick the item off the floor.

It’s a burner cell, the cheapest you can get. There are 4 text messages on it and he scrolls through them. Nothing of it interests him, merely threats and condescending language. He walks up the stairs, making it to his room before he collapses into the bed. The bed that he and Cas slept in, that Sammy would crawl into when he had a nightmare. The same bed that he and Bobby built, so that he and Sam wouldn’t have to top to tail on a single mattress.

Sitting up, he bites on the bottom of his lip. There are so many things he wants to say, so many people he wants to thank; that timer he was worried about is dripping away. The burner cell pings.

            _YED:_

| _Don’t test my patience, boy. Warehouse 15, southside. Now._

He gathers up a few things from his room: Sammy’s old cell, some wires and tape, that pair of pliers he left up here. Once laid out on the bed, he plugs the cell in to get it charging and sets to work stripping the ends of the wires, taking off the back of the phone as he does so. Then he brings up the old recorder that Dad gave him one year, stopping deadly still when he feels the cold barrel of the gun press into his back. His breathing calms and he chuckles weakly, it’s _his_ gun, and he takes it out to put it on the bed next to his assorted objects.

He attaches the wires to the base plate of the phone, and then to the back of the recorder. There’s a chance he’s done this before (it’s the one thing that he actually taught Charlie) and that is how to record conversations on a mobile phone without any proper equipment. Where Sam and Charlie are all laptops and high tech, he’s grown up having to make the best of the worst and improvise the shit out of a situation.

It hasn’t always ended well.

He brings up the microphone app, as soon as he’s certain the wires are secured, and stares at the screen until it goes dark. Unlocking it again, he presses the record button.

The red light flashes as signal to start. He swallows, the prickle of tears forming in his eyes.

“My name is Dean Winchester.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, taking another hollow breath.

“I’m an Aquarius, I enjoy long walks along the beach, and blue eyed brown haired Christians.” He laughs quietly to himself. “When I was 8 years old, a man named Azazel started a fire in my house. My Mom died.”

His head falls to his palm, images of standing over her grave flashing across his eyelids, like a flickering projector.

“Not only did Azazel get away with it, he threatened my little brother Sam and manipulated my Dad into helping him expand his more ‘legitimate’ business. So I’m going to set the record straight. If I uh, end up finding the stairway to heaven, just... I’m sorry for all the times I’ve failed all the people I care about and, uh,” He chokes slightly, “I really do love you Cas.” He falls silent. “Take care of yourself, Sammy.”

The phone drops onto the bedspread and he can’t help but feel suddenly empty. A void has opened within him and he calls the phone, checking that the recording has started. Putting the gun back into his trousers, he stands up, a different man than he sat down.

There’s no life flashing before your eyes bullshit. He hasn’t had an epiphany. It just is.

Unbelievably, he drives with an air of calm to the warehouse. So he is spontaneous, and he does improvise, but he also plans to get his Dad _out_. Therefore, he can’t run in there guns blazing. He can’t involve the police, because he’ll spook the bad guys and the whole point of this, realistically, is to end it. Get the justice his Mom deserves, break Dad out, protect Sam. Pretty much full-circling his whole life.

Grey warehouses stand to attention against the pale concrete road; it’s a fair bit away from the nearest highway. _No one to hear me scream_ , his mind supplies comfortingly.

            _YED:_

            | _Tick tock, Winchester_

He doesn’t bother with preamble; he parks Baby round the back of one of the other buildings, scuffing his feet on the dirt as he drags himself round. The initial recon proves to be fruitless, and he checks the surrounding area, cautiously opening the doors to Warehouse 15.

Inside is no less unimpressive, light flittering through the broken glass in the ceiling, walls peeling from rust and underuse. Plants have started to climb through the gaps, reaching their tendrils across the structure. The floor should have been dust covered, but it is littered with a disturbance of footsteps. Heavy boots, imprinted back and forth and back, drag marks and-

Stark crimson droplets of blood, congealing in the dust.

The police might not even be able to use this as evidence, the part of his mind that sounds a hell of a lot like Sammy informs him. He tells it to shut the hell up, eyes crossing from the ground up, to see a single chair in the middle of the room.

“Dad?” He shouts, rushing forward towards the wilting figure.

“Dean?” His Dad slurs, a thick line of blood oozing from his swollen lip.

He’s a mess. Dean reaches him, the years of training failing under seeing his Dad like this. His hands flail and fumble, shaking against the overwhelming profusion of blood and wounds. Fisting his hands in his short hair, Dean feels the tears slip out. He stands up straight, turning around, only containing his scream of anguish due to a slam of a corrugated door.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” The voice rasps, “Your Dad was not nearly as much fun as you...”

He shuts the advancing voice out, forcing himself to untie his Dad and begin to attempt to drag him from the chair towards the back entrance.

“Where you going, sport?”

Azazel

He stops, letting his fingers slowly unfold from his Dad’s injured arm.

Whipping his gun from his back pocket, he swaps between aiming at both of them. They seem amused, sharing a private glance that causes sweat to accumulate on his brow. It doesn’t stop them from walking forward.

“Stop.” He states, keeping the gun trained on Azazel. Alastair is just his attack dog. “You know me, so you know that the chance of me missing is about the same as you going to heaven. Don’t fucking move.”

Azazel smiles, crookedly.

“Daddy’s little soldier found the toy gun hmm,” He looks round him to motion to Alastair, “What’s the bet that it’s not even loaded Al?”

Dean turns, with striking force and brutal aim, firing a single shot that barely skims Alastair’s head.

“I said,” He growls, “Don’t. Move.”

Alastair waits, glancing to the metal wall that is reverberating the sound of where the bullet stopped. He raises his eyebrows.

“You missed.” He grins, predatorily taking another step.

“Oh dirtbag,” Dean withdraws the gun, “I never miss.”

The sprinklers assume into life, water splashing down in even loads across the warehouse, some of the corroded head sputtering.

Azazel purses his lips, calculating; frankly Dean feels like a slab of meat under a microscope.

“So I can’t set you on fire,” He says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, his tone childlike and yet disturbingly malicious, “Clever for a blunt instrument.”

“My Dad is no longer under your employment,” Dean spits through the gushing water. Puddles have begun to form in the dips of the cement, patches of carpet let over sodden in cool liquid.

“Says who?” Azazel cocks his head, walking towards him again.

“I know what he did.” Dean gasps, the chill settling over him and making his hand tremble. “He sold himself to you, doing your dirty work and for what? For a heart transplant that is faulty? You guys beat me up in hospital because _I_ ruined your plan.”

In his anger, he has stridden away from his Dad and the chair. A rooky mistake, to have become on either side rather than central to the two enemies.

“Your heart isn’t defective, dear.” Alastair rasps, his shoes clicking in time with the water against the ground.

“But you did cause complications for me. No sick son, no reason for John to remain under my thumb. Of course, I could have just _taken_ Sammy.” Azazel’s smile widens at Dean’s bolt of anger, “I didn’t need that kind of attention.”

“And Mom?” Dean cries, falling back to his Dad and the pool of diluted red that is mingling out into the rest of the water. The smell of copper is vile, gag worthy, and Dean brings up sick at even naming his Mom in front of this monster. _Gotta get it on tape though._

“Mary... Mary was a mistake.” Wistfully, Azazel replies, “No one was meant to die, it was more of a social experiment. Although, YED, as the news papers dubbed me, did get creative with their theories as to my motive.”

The arm around Dean's neck takes him by surprise, the sinewy skin constricting his airflow. He struggles against it, dropping the gun and throwing Alastair off. Raising his fists, he dodges some of the blows, even landing a few on the older man – he is aware that Azazel is probably going to attack from behind at any time.

He gets clocked hard around the head, making him stumble forward. A well placed boot recoils through the flesh of his scar, and he reels with it long after the boot has removed itself. Everything is dulled; his senses are enveloped in bubble wrap, blood dripping from his ear onto the concrete below him as he hits the floor. There’s a sickening crack, that must have been from him, and he is somewhat aware of the mangled formation of words coming from himself and someone else.

He tries to get up, to do anything, but the pain is radiating from his heart, old aches and pains once again making themselves known. Even his ribs, which had healed, throb wildly as the blows continue to descend on him in a flurry of movement that his sluggish eyes struggle to process.

The cold nose of a gun.

His gun.

Pressed into his shuddering temple, a hand pulls him to his knees. Water sprays across his face, clinging to his eyelashes. He winces at blinking, at breathing, squinting while trying to see what happened to his Dad. There is no longer a slumped figure in the chair.

The hammer is pulled back, a thudding clunk to his dazed ear drums.

‘Dean’ is mouthed at him, his Dad is in front of him now, in the space of a lethargic flutter of his eyes. The hand shakes him, his whole body wobbling with the action.

Hands cup his cheeks, sliding across them, the calluses hardly felt with the slick of blood and water against his skin. His Dad’s eyes are swollen shut, his face a litany of forming bruises and cuts.

“I’m proud of you,” He reads from his Dad’s lips, the simple phrase repeated over and over, and Dean lets his eyes fall shut, nodding. His knees are cricked, sore from being leant on them, and it takes a lot of effort to bring one hand up to cover his Dad’s.

“I know,” He tries to say, but he doesn’t actually know if it gets across.

A click.

A lone click of the hammer and he smirks.

“Ba-fucking-zinga,” He slurs, consciousness fading away to a peaceful, painless, nothing.


	26. Blood Stains Are Hard To Wipe Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should have another one up, reasonably within the next 24 hours. Blatant Cat's Cradle reference. 
> 
> Let me know what you think c:

****

Sam returns to the chair in Bobby’s kitchen, Bones hot on his heels, and he slumps down into it. The old wood squeaks, joints straining under his weight, as he pats the soft fur on Bones’ head. The cold nose pushes into his palm, the warmth of his tongue laving over his hand until it is covered in slobber. Sam crinkles his nose, wiping the gob onto his trousers.

“How you holding up, Sam?” Bobby follows him in, taking his usual place by the laptop, surrounded by books on the other side of the table.

His gaze is grave, the hat of his head shifted from its usual position where he’s taken it off and put it back on so many times. Both he and Bobby suspected there was something more going on between John and Dean; he doesn’t have to try to be able to see that Dean’s been acting off. Dad hasn’t been home in a few days, Bobby couldn’t even get a hold of him, and now all of sudden Dean has to go and pick him up? No, it doesn’t quite add up.

He scrunches his face, resting his elbow on the table, leaning his head on his clenched fist until the sight of Bobby’s beard opposite him blurs into his eyes and hat, becoming a mush of facial features.

“I’m worried about Dean,” He admits finally. It would help if Dean hadn’t adopted Dad’s one man army approach to everything. It can’t be about money, he decides, because he offered to help! He doesn’t know what more he can do other than not be in the way when the eventual ruckus and storm hits.

“I know, I am too.” Bobby bends forward, sliding a glass of water across the wood, “But I asked how you were doing, ya idjit.”

Sam looks up.

“Oh,” His eyes fall again, fingers picking absently at a crack in the table.

He can’t remember the last time someone other than Dean asked if he was ok; it’s all ‘Dean’s heart condition’ and ‘we’re bringing Cas back’ and ‘can you believe the state of the economy these days’. He tries not to be bitter, because, at the end of the day, those are problems that far outweigh his own. After a while though, he forgets that he is actually a person with feelings that matter, that the storm that is ripping through him is something he really has to face – that people care about how he’s doing too. He shakes his head, he’s been spending too much time with Dean’s emotional repression.

“He’s lying about stuff, more than usual. And he still rubs at his, uh, scar.” Sam’s deflects anyway, until attention is caught by the buzzing of Dean’s phone on the side.

Bobby contemplates this, his own hand mimicking what Dean usually does. He shrugs, standing to go get a beer while Sam investigates Dean’s phone.

            _YED:_

| _Around and around and around we spin,_

_With feet of led and wings of tin..._

It goes off again in his hand; he’s got no idea what the cryptic message could stand for, nor who ‘YED’ is. Frowning, he opens the next text.

            _YED_

| _See the cat? See the cradle?_

He huffs, stumped by the meaning, or reference, this person is referring to. It has to be something Dean would understand, but even then, what the hell can Sam do with that information?

“Who stole your prom date son?”

He turns to face Bobby, who is standing in the open planned kitchen, bottle of bear balancing on the precipice of his lips. The joke – jab - falls flat between them.

“You got any idea who YED is Bobby?”

He doesn’t know what happens first: the litany of swears, both colourful and completely out of character, Bobby’s bottle crashing, almost falling, on the table or the old man moving to his side of the room. Bobby snatches the phone from his palm, scrolling with an intense look of dread on his face through the messages. His face pales.

“Balls.” He scrubs a hand through his beard, “Sam, we need Dean’s friend Charlie.”

“What, why?” He pulls on Bobby’s sleeve as he moves away, his eyes almost meeting the base of Bobby’s nose now. “Who’s YED Bobby?”

Bobby sighs, and Sam can read it in his eyes that he doesn’t want to tell him. So he deflates, draws himself in, and mutters that he’ll call her now.

He hands the phone over to Bobby, once Charlie picks up, and he knows she’ll be more than enthusiastic to trace the phone number or whatever. Dean’s phone, no longer useful, is discarded on the sofa beside him. He kind of gets how it feels. Everyone wants to protect him, but no one wants to let him know what he should be afraid _of_. Resigned, he picks up the phone, unlocks it, and sifts through some of the older text messages. It should feel like an invasion of privacy, wrong and misguided, however he doesn’t currently care. If he’s left alone with the shady alcoves forming in his mind, 1000 things that could possibly stand for YED, who it could be, what danger Dean’s in... He might go insane.

There are way too many texts for so few contacts. And right at the top – Sam doesn’t know whether to be saddened to the point where he wants to give his big brother a hug, or surprised just how much Dean has changed – under YED, of course, is Cas. Cas in big letters, and Sam’s finger takes over, scrolling up through the vast amount of grey boxes, indicating Dean’s one way conversation.

He reads a few, laughing softly at some of the more menial, trivial, things, and sighing at the ones that scream how his brother has really been feeling. The _I need you_ and _I’m sorry for getting us into this mess_ ; worst of all _I don’t think I’m doing ok_. God, how could he have been so selfish and missed this!? He’s half way through beating himself up, thinking about how to make it up to Dean, when he tunes back into the room around him.

“Dammit, I need cops to be sent to –“

 

* * *

 

John catches Dean as he slumps forward; cradling his son's head in his hands with the rest of his body limp against his own. Something falls from Dean’s pocket, and he hopes his son had some sort of plan because he’s going to be ripping him a new one when he wakes up.

If he never has to see his son unconscious ever again he will die a happy man.

He assumes that Sam is with Bobby (Dean has always made sure Sam is safe, he always puts his safety first), and that neither of them know what he and Dean are doing here. He wishes that Dean would have just let this lie; both his sons got the stubborn gene from Mary. God he misses that woman. His sons keep him on his toes, though, and whatever Dean’s done, to get here, to be here, he knows that at least Bobby and Sam will do something proactive in response to his absence.

“It’s not loaded,” Alastair states simply, scowling irritably at whatever Azazel is doing behind him, presumably with Dean's gun. His seemingly towering form advances over Dean’s shoulder. “What’s this?”

Azazel moves from behind him, not that he’s really paying that much attention. He’s lost quite a bit of blood, even before Dean showed up. He smirks, whatever his son had said must have been from one of his many TV show references as he fooled them into thinking he’d bring a loaded gun in here. Dean’s always been the strategist and, he rocks back wincing as Dean’s weight follows his movement in the worst possible places, he’s always had some sort of plan on hand. This, getting beaten up, isn’t a worthy part of his plan in hindsight. John will be sure to ridicule him, should they both survive.

Speaking of, with Dean unconscious and his own vision pulsing a hazy black, how are they going to get out of this? He blinks, sluggish, crusted blood obstructing his ability to open and shut his eye. He hadn’t noticed the water, which is now pouring down his face and into Dean’s hair. He rakes a hand through his son’s hair, watching as the red tinged droplets fall out. His palm rests over Dean’s heart, an insentient move since the fire. A warmth bleeds into his hand, so different from the gushing water around them. Blood, by Dean’s heart, coming from the scar. Fuck.

“It’s,” Alastair starts but is cut off.

John looks up in time to see Azazel rip the phone from Alastair’s grasp.

“It’s recording...” He side eyes John, who raises an eyebrow, even from his depleted position, vulnerable and bloody on the floor, and he smiles.

The phantom wail of sirens fills his ears. Huh, he looks down at his boy, maybe he did have a back up plan after all. He’s recorded their conversation, the police are on the way-

Something hard slams around the back of his head. His last conscious thought is to fall sideways and not on top of Dean’s already injured body.

 

* * *

 

“Bobby, come on what the hell?!”

Sam struggles to get his feet to comply with the speed at which Bobby is pulling him towards his old tow truck. He had the mind to shove Dean’s phone into his pocket; in some blind attempt to be prepared for whatever was coming.

“That _idjit_ ,” Bobby grumbles, stalking around the front of the truck, yanking the rusted door with an excruciating scrunch of twisted metal, “Both of them. I’m going to box your Daddy and Dean around the god damn head.”

Catching himself mid retort, Sam settles back into the seat. Bobby’s stressed enough as it is, and he called the cops so everything’s going to be fine. He’ll meet Dean and his Dad at the police station, where it’ll all be explained and then they can come back to Bobby’s and order take out until Cas comes home; then Dean will go all mushy and gross and Sam can pretend that Gabe is annoying and that he hates all that sappy shit, when really he’ll pull his phone out, snap a few pictures and text Jess.

Yup. That’s the plan.

Or, because fate never really liked him anyway, Bobby will turn right off the highway, and head towards the hospital. Sam closes his eyes, gripping the phone like it’s a lifeline, like it will make it all go away.

The phone goes off in his pocket, coupled with how on edge he is already, makes him jump. In turn, Bobby snaps him a glare, but it softens and he rubs a hand across his forehead.

“Aw hell, I’m sorry Sam. I promise, once we know everyone’s still breathing I’ll explain everything.” Bobby straitens, “That was not the best I’ve ever put it.”

“Thanks Bobby,” Sam mumbles, drawing the phone that is still insistently vibrating from his pocket.

He stares numbly at the name, swallowing as he answers.

“G-Gabe-“

“Sammy?”

Fuck Gabriel for using that name, god damn it. Sam’s tongue darts out, words standing and falling off his tongue, dead weight that he can’t force out. Biting his lip, he tries to collect his thoughts because, oh yeah, Cas is coming home too and they’re supposed to be stashing him at Bobby’s.

“Dean is-“

He’s cut off by scuffling, background fumbling filling the speaker. A sense of gratification washes over him because he doesn’t think he’d actually be coherent enough to offer any kind of explanation, not with the urgency of Bobby’s driving and the dread welling in stomach. The brave face he always slides on is cracking, a slow, long line, crawling up the middle.

“It’s alright Sam,” A voice that is a sound for sore ears, “Talk to me.”

He takes a deep breath. This means they succeeded.

“Jesus Cas,” he exhales heavily, resting his head on the rattling dashboard. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“And you Sam,” He pauses, most likely feeling the same tension Sam can and he’s not even with him. The voice that crackles through the mic is tentative, not the demanding growl that had answered him before, “Is Dean... Alive?”

Sam’s whole body stiffens. He hadn’t even allowed the possibility of the ulterior option cross his mind.

“I... I don’t know.”

Silence, so deafening Sam has to repeat through a breathing cycle Dean used to use when he got short of breath.

“We’re nearly there Sam, I-“

“I know Cas, he’ll be ok.”

Sam hangs up, eyes staring blankly ahead of him.

_Come on Dean, you have to pull through._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((for those of you wanting to read the heartbreaking alternate ending, you should click the series link now))


	27. The One That Saves Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 in one night whhHAaAaT
> 
> Lemme know, yo
> 
> The song is Oasis - Wonderwall (accoustic version, and if I was a better person I would link it for you) c:
> 
> ((for those of you wanting to read the heartbreaking alternate ending, you should click the series link now))

The first day was literal chaos.

Sam doesn’t remember half of it; it’s all a blur of blood and nurses, police trying to take statements and everyone being incredibly tense. They reached the hospital before Dean and John, Cas and the Novak’s were still a few hours out. First hand, he watched both his father and his brother be wheeled in, nurses and doctors barking orders, and a bunch of jargon he doesn’t understand.

But they were alive. _Alive_. Sam – apparently – passed out. It would explain the blank in his memory, and why he woke up with some red head sitting by his bedside.

Wait...

It doesn’t explain the red head.

Groaning, he pushes himself up and realises, belatedly, he’s in his room at Bobby’s. The girl smiles, and his stomach lurches as he rushes to his feet (because _Dean_ and _Dad_ and _Cas_ ) which he must mutter out loud, and he is easily veered round by hands under his armpits. She sets him down on the bed, treating him like a spooked animal. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Where’s Bobby? My Dad, my brother? Where the hell is Cas?!”

He’s feeling a little hysterical and it must show because he feels a much larger hand grip his shoulder and pull him up.

It _is_ Cas.

“Your... Bobby is at the hospital with Dean. I agreed to stay with you before visiting. There has been no more news. Hello, Sam.” Cas drags him into a hug, and frankly he has said to much for him at once that his brain is tripping over the processing of _Cas_ and _hug_. He didn’t even get the time to get a look at his friend, and after a few seconds he registers the action and takes the comfort from the embrace.

“Cas.” Sam pulls back, resting his hands on Cas’ shoulders. He smiles lopsidedly, letting his hands fall down to his sides.

They’re almost the same height too, and he scrutinises his friend – brother – with a complete obliviousness to the mysterious girl who has left them be. Cas’ eyes are darker, bags laden, proof that he did not sleep. Sam doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but it’s enough that Cas looks like shit so... Cas' also wearing one of Dean’s old shirts, he can tell, it’s too big for him, as are the jeans, and he’s wringing a hand in the other.

Cas fidgets, squinting, debating whether or not to say something. Sam tilts his head slightly at him in question. That’s another thing that’s changed, as though Cas showing emotion is a fluid thing, that molds to his situation.

“Could we go, to see Dean now?”

“Right yeah,” He laughs, because everything’s coming out a-ok, “Just let me get changed.”

Sam thinks for a second that Cas isn’t going to leave, there's a hesitation to do so, which would be awkward, but he smiles, small, and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Sam slouches, and then stretches, moving over to his wardrobe to find some clothes.

 

* * *

 

Cas goes to walk away from Sam’s room, pausing at the closed door. He takes a moment to digest where he is; he’s not entirely convinced that this isn’t some drug induced dream. Maybe he’s died and gone to heaven. Anna, who unless is a conjoined hallucination, is not dead, neither is Dean, and Balthazar is back from England.

Disbelievingly, he moves down Bobby’s hallway, pipes groaning and floorboards creaking beneath his feet. He reaches Dean’s room, a timestamp of a boy he didn’t know. There’s a baseball glove on the shelf, an abundance of books lining the floors that he would have previously associated with Sam. On his first night here, he discovered a gun under the bed.

He sits on the edge of Dean’s bed, the covers still ruffled from his restless and sleepless night, and wrings his coat in his hands. The tan fabric has been a constant, always, in the tangible reality, but even he can’t deny that he’d close his eyes and remember his time with Dean, and pray that he was alive.

He never believed he’d see his brothers, not there, nor that they would deem him worth saving. It’s embarrassing, that he had presumed them another figment of his imagination. He figures that were Dean and his father not the priority, his own siblings would be freaking out predominantly about Anna. And what they’re going to do next. Gabriel’s plan wasn’t your generic definition of a 'plan' – he clearly did not anticipate it succeeding quite so well. As it stands, Novak’s have a habit of compartmentalising and ignoring feelings, their ability to shove the real issues to the darkest depths of their minds something they all have in common.

Sighing, he closes his eyes, trying to picture Cain’s farm, the bees rushing past his face. The grass is green, impossibly, and suddenly his serene garden has morphed into Dean. He sits up, scowling at Gabe’s far too smug face leaning in the doorway.

“Sup bro,” He strides in, sitting beside him and patting his knee. If he wasn’t so emotionally and physically and mentally drained right now, he might have protested the gesture. That, or he’s been starved of human, proper human, contact for too long. After all, there’s only so much comfort that can be given by something that you believed to be fake for such an extensive period of time. “Thinking about love?”

Castiel startles at the mention of the word.

He thought he knew what it meant, what it felt like. Before, it was warmth, and happiness and a desire to protect Dean, to be with him and to hold him as close as possible. It ached to spend an hour, a day, not in his presence, and it burned to think of him, for a fleeting moment, all night, while at St. Amabilis’.

“Is that what this is,” He says to the fabric in his hand, because it’s easier than facing his brother.

Honestly, he’s not sure what the emotions rolling like oceans in his lungs are, that racket through the uneven beat of his heart at the thought of his, first and foremost, best friend.

“Of course it is Cassie,” Gabriel says, pulling away from his loosely slung hug, “Love is joy-“

“And fear,” A soft voice enters, Anna walking awkwardly into the room and dropping down into a crouch in front of him. Her small palm folds over his own, and squeezes, her eyes are wide and sympathetic.

“And sacrifice,” Balthazar quips, sliding round on the other side of him to sling his arm over his shoulders.

Cas buckles under the weight of what they’re saying. Could they be right? Is it still love that curls in his veins and screams in his ears at night?

“And pain,” He whispers, shrugging his siblings off. “I need to see Dean.”

 

They drive in Gabe’s car, him, Gabe and Sam, because they figure that seeing three of the supposedly not-in-Lawrence Novak’s would most assuredly draw more attention than one. Even Gabe is anxious, probably more for the brother’s than for Dean’s condition in itself. Cas draws himself in, as the jarring silhouette of the hospital rises above them. Gabriel is focused on driving, but Sam notices. He was always a very perceptive person. He places a hand on Cas’ arm, and pats it erratically, in a way that's not really that reassuring.

Sam’s possibly running through, like he is, how this might end up. At least, for them both, the worst outcome has been confirmed not to happen. But for Cas, truly, the second worst is almost as bad. Because, he licks his dry lips as Gabriel finds a parking space, the likelihood of Dean wanting to see him again, everything they’ve been through... He’s hopeful, although not particularly optimistic.

“Cas, you comin’?” Sam tugs on his sleeve, apprehensively switching between him and the hospital.

“Yes.” He climbs out, “Gabriel, what is the plan should we see Michael?”

Gabriel freezes in his steps. His mouth opens, shuts and opens again without saying a word. He eventually concedes to a shrug.

“Run like the wind, Bullseye.”

Sam barks a meek laugh, striding towards the automatic doors. Each step Cas takes brings him further and further into a bad feeling, unease building of with the clicks of his shoes. The doors open for Sam, he and Gabe following through them just as they begin to close. Talking to Lisa, Sam finds out where John and Dean are, in wards that are close. He feels obligated to go with Sam to see his father, and he repeatedly tells himself that he is not avoiding the inevitable rejection.

He waits for Sam, who spends mere minutes with his father. Although cognisant, Cas can see through the partition that he’s suffered multiple serious injuries, and is barely maintaining the conversation with Sam. He thins his lips, when he hears John tell Sam to go to Dean, that he’ll be ok, and two police officers pass them with grim expressions. There is so much as of yet to be explained, and he had presumed that any official statements that needed to be made could wait until he had better healed, or would have been taken the moment John woke up.

Sam’s feet drag out of the room, but take measured steps towards the ward where Dean is. A hand grasps his shoulder, a rare brotherly show of affection passing, before Gabe is walking up in front of him beside Sam. His brother, though an ass and unconventional in every sense of the word, is a good man. Sometimes.

“If I see you in one more coma, I’ll put you in one my god damn self!” Bobby’s gruff voice booms from the opening door to a room. Sam has stopped outside, Cas lingering further back.

Bobby rebuilds his composure at the sight of Sam, his face fatigued, though he manages a smile as Sam bodily slams into him with a forceful hug.

“How is he Bobby?”

“Ready to see you, boy.”

Sam bounds inside the room, and Dean’s traditional, albeit croaky, exclamation of 'Sammy' can be heard from the doorway. The adults stand together, not moving, in a huddle outside.

“Right,” Gabriel claps his hands, making the groggy Bobby and shifty Cas jump, “Let’s get you some coffee old man. It’s on me since you’re stowing the castaways.”

Bobby grumbles an idjit in response, shaking his head as Gabe dodges his half-hearted swipe.

Taking a seat in the chairs outside, Cas crumples into it, playing with the tassel of his coat. His nose scrunches, it could do with a wash, considering that it’s been through everything he has. He gets lost in the faint and rhythmic tapping of his fingers on his pant leg, and it feels like forever until Sam comes out of Dean’s room.

“He fell asleep, but I told him you’re here. He was excited I swear, he’s just... Exhausted.”

Cas swallows. The doubt must be showing on his face, because Sam mutters something under his breath; he presses an object into his hand and wanders back in the direction of John.

Steeling himself, Cas crosses the threshold from the corridor to Dean’s hospital room. Luckily, he has managed to avoid Michael so far, but he doesn’t want to risk being caught here, so he closes the door quietly behind him.

The familiar setting of sterile smells and white walls greets him, along with the continuous bleep of the heart monitor. Somewhere a radio is crackling out a song, a touch that was obviously left byone of Dean’s family who visited him. He recognises the tune, drifting over to Dean’s side, pulling the chair out and closer to him as he takes his hand.

_Back beat, the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out_

Now seated, he looks at what Sam had given him.

A phone; Dean’s phone to be exact.

He turns it on, an image of himself asleep on the screen. Brushing his thumb over it, he repeats the action to the hand in his own, and unlocks the device. For a moment he is confused – maybe the image was Sam’s point – but is intrigued to find Dean’s text messages displayed on the screen. His name is second from the top, which seems strange given how long he has not _had_ a phone to communicate with.

_I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now_

The first few take his breath away, and he chokes on it, the love or pain or joy, because Dean still wants him. Stuttering beside him draws his attention, and he drops the phone, leaning close to Dean, clutching his hand tighter. He deliberately does not look at the wounds, lest he be sick or start a fight with whoever did this to his... boyfriend.

“C-Cas... Is that you?” An inhale, giving time for Cas’ heart not to go into cardiac arrest, “I need you.”

His voice is a ghost, a wisp, of the laughter and power he knew before. Cas feels a tear slip out of his eye, his chapped lips grazing the bandaged knuckles on his hands.

“I’m here,” He says, “And I’m not leaving you again.”

Dean’s eyes snap open.

Cas almost, quiet nearly, dies with the relief that takes him over at seeing that shade of green. The moment is ruined by congealed blood and multiple bandages, but he takes it. He reaches up, maneuvering on the bed, not leaning on Dean, and cups his face gently. He restrains the overwhelming need to claim, to bite and kiss and hold him as close as possible forever, exhaling shakily onto Dean’s puffy lips. Searching his eyes, he sees the calm take Dean over.

“Hey,” Dean says, his mouth not moving despite his breathy laugh. His finger strains to lift themselves, hands held down by the invisible force of his injuries.

“Don’t,” Cas says, head tilted fondly.

Another tear dribbles down his cheek and Dean’s hands make a second valiant attempt at movement.  He presses their foreheads together, hands caressing the unblemished skin of parts of Dean’s cheeks.

“Are you ok?” Dean coughs, the jerky actions shuddering through them both.

“I’m fine. Are you ok, Dean?” He parrots the sentiment, knowing that it is unnecessary and at the same time an endearment to them; to others it seems like any other question, to them it is a vast declaration of more.

_Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me_  
 _And after all, you're my wonderwall_

“I don’t know what I am,” Dean swallows, his Adams apple moving up and down, he chuckles weakly, palm constricting with the efforts of his speech, “But it’s definitely not ok.”


	28. Trials and Tribulation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to the end I can taste it. Smut upcoming in the next chapter, and then you'll get the official ending at the same time! 
> 
> Thanks for all the support and kudos and just uuuuh. You guys are awesome. 
> 
> This will not be at all lawfully accurate, ok, but I tried. Lemme know what you think c:

Clenching his fist, he bites down on his tongue until the tang of copper sweeps into his mouth. The trial started a week ago; the evidence, witnesses, protective custody, hospital appointments, and, regrettably, therapy sessions demanding all of his time. It is going well, for the side of his Dad, but the biggest piece of evidence isn’t something that can sit in lock up, or be analysed, because it’s _him_.

Yes, the tape (that had earned him an impressed eyebrow raise from the Chief of police) had been collected, along with physical evidence from the scene and documents obtained with a warrant on more than probable cause. The ultimately good news is, that no matter which way this goes, Azazel’s name and campaign has been squandered, a dirty smear wiped across his integrity.

He tells himself this, a private mantra as he strides ahead, following the clerk to the witness stand in court. It’s not at all like on the TV shows, everyone is silent, cameras are pointed at him and people he’s never even met line the rows behind his family. They’d all taken time off work, to be here to support him, and he swallows the lump in his throat, nodding to them before repeating the lines to be sworn in.

The things they want him to talk about are not limited to what has transpired in recent times. All the controversy and speculation that surround his Dad’s involvement with both Azazel and Alastair is only part of the story.

What was John doing with them in the first place? The business in the warehouse is a mess. Why is Dean’s involvement significant? The way Azazel had taunted Dean with the-now-on-record text messages, it is as though he anticipated Dean’s reaction, meaning Dean knew of the illicit activities. Could John be doing time for the money embezzlement?

All questions that his lawyer had thrown at him, explaining that the cross examination was likely to be thousands of times worse.

He sighs through his nose, the judge is talking to the lawyers or some shit. This isn’t just the last few months of hell, this is dredging up the past decade of his life. Mom, Dad, kidnapping and beatings, being afraid, nearly dying, they want to fine tooth comb everything that’s happened, they really want to get to the bottom of the Winchester curse.

Even though he hates, loathes, the touchy feely talk with Garth, God knows he’s needed it. Dad will be doing time for his involvement, and Dean’s getting at the bare minimum a fine for firing a gun without a license. The only permanent damage from the attack, besides a scathe with an infection in his heart wound, is that he’s got partial hearing loss in his left ear. It’s not static, empty, but it’s not clear either; he often has to strain to hear the TV on that side unless they’re at the cinema.

He feels drained, as his official statement is thrust down in front of him, the seething lawyer – Bela, her name is, and she’s trying to start victim shaming in some last ditch attempt to disprove his quality as a witness – smirking coyly at him, talking about the blow to his head and his repeated brain injuries that could have resulted in memory loss, at least enough to get him discredited. Over her shoulder, he can see Sam and Cas, both dolled up in their suits, Sam’s whispering something to Cas who’s frowning in return. Makes sense, Sammy’s the lawyer of the family after all. Taking a sip from the water provided, he looks around the courtroom once more, because he’s the final witness, the last piece of the puzzle, and it’s all he can do to remember what Garth had talked to him about remaining calm.

He’s a little more than fucked up, in his head. The kidnapping, when he and Sam were younger, is something that’s stuck and manifested in the protective, to the point of the lack of self preservation, stance he holds over people he cares about. At first, he scoffed at what Garth was saying. Everyone protects family, that’s what family is for. A few weeks later, of art therapy and a bunch of other hoodoo crap (that he will deny to have helped) have unfolded the creases and gotten how he really feels written down. But the trial emerging from the cracks in the walls, Alastair and Azazel with enough dirt on dignitaries and the lengths John went to in order to save Dean...

The memories of them are shadows, nothing more than ink on the page.

And he _knows_ that. God does he know it, but he can’t help the crawling of his skin at their smiles, flashes of silver knives and fire.

Fire.

When Azazel took him and Sammy, fresh out of school, he had sat them in a room. Dirty, basic, on a tragic single bed with disgusting bed covers and mold mottled walls.

Dean had forced Sam to sit behind him, and Sam had done so without question. The kid had fallen asleep on Dean’s back, his chubby fists clutching to the fabric of his shirt, and forehead pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades. He had been terrified. Azazel hadn’t said, or done anything particularly threatening or scary – other than kidnapping them of course – and even then he had just sat there, opposite Dean.

In his hand was a lighter; a silver square box, that had the initials H.W imprinted behind his fingers.

Dean knew, because the lighter was Dad’s, given to him by Grandpa Henry when he died.

The flame flickered, orange crackles, and a single click to extinguish the light. Dean couldn’t tell them how long he watched it, the glow that emanated and then was ultimately gone. He’s memorised the thick stench of gasoline, like when Dad would fill up at the station and Dean would rush to put his window up.

The lawyer woman is still talking, painting her narrative of the, perhaps not innocence, crimes that Azazel and Alastair committed.

“They saved your life.” She pinpoints him with her ice cold gaze, “If manslaughter or indeed murder were important, why would they bother to save you?”

“Objection,” His lawyer stands, “Leading question.”

“Denied.”

His lawyer sits, and Dean takes a second to appreciate Bela’s calculating stare.

“They needed me alive-“

“They had no desire for you to be dead, Dean-“

“Because,” He raises his voice over her, glancing up with a wince to the judge. He nods, signalling Dean to continue, “Without me there’s no leverage on my Dad. Everything he did he did to protect me, to save my life.” He swallows, ticking his tongue once against the backs of his teeth. “It’s my fault.”

There is muttering from the jury, and Dean could probably stack his self worth on the wooden railing of the stand, and watch as it toppled down with each word that comes out of his mouth. Garth had talked to him about his too, tried to get him to open the can of worms on _this_ bag of emotions. Some things a man’s gotta keep to himself, to stop burdening good people with his shitty problems.

The hearing continues, and he’s batted with questions and accusations left and right. They’d stopped for recess about an hour ago, where he’d stuffed down something like 16 biscuits and brought them all back up again. By the time they’re ready to let him go, he’s emotionally bruised and beaten.

The lawyers have said their pieces, and he’s about to be ushered out of the stand. He hopes he never sees this side of a courtroom, or the other, ever in his lifetime. Pausing, he glances at Sam and Cas, who are pushing their way out of the isle, to the judge who is contemplating everything he’s heard, and to the jury, who are wide eyed at everything he’s brought to light. He can’t deal with the pity in their eyes, but the words that are stuck, letters jammed into the sides of his oesophagus, are screaming at him to force them out, if he ever wants to sleep restfully in the future.

“I went to the warehouse with the intention of ending this,” He speaks confidently, inwardly cowering as the courtroom silences at his words, “I was trying to do the right thing,” he shrugs, “Maybe in the wrong way. But I’m so sick of doing the wrong thing, and being the reason other people do the wrong thing. I won’t apologise for protecting my family.”

He keeps his eyes downcast while he walks out, not trusting anyone to keep the tears streaming down his face a secret.

 

* * *

 

Since the trial ended, things have gotten a little better. Dean is going to therapy, no matter how much he grouses to Sam about it being a waste of time (Sam personally believes that it’s because Cas told him to go, but hey, he’s got no proof that it’s true). 18 years of burning the candle at both ends and Dean is finally acting like a man-child. Because, we all know, Dean is capable for maturity for about three and a half seconds. Maybe four, if he’s really trying.

Dad’s got a few months of sentence time, less for good behaviour, because although the money was technically fine, it wasn’t obtained in a legal way. So there’s a hefty fine to follow him out of jail, too. Still, it’s better than the cost of his life, or Dean’s.

Sam walks past the Dean’s room, that Cas is staying in as well; he inadvertently overhears something he shouldn’t, something private, that makes him squirm and feel the guilt burden on a thicker layer. He should have done more, for Dean or for Cas, to stop this from happening. The night is dark, and so is the room, covered in charcoal greys and dark blues. Cas is knelt on the threadbare rug that has been by the side of Dean’s bed for as long as Sam can remember, the fabric shifting with the rocking of Cas on his knees. Dean must be asleep, or in the shower, Sam was on his way to bed himself, but he can’t bring himself to walk away. His heart is stronger than his head, in his decision to stay put and listen.

“You can break my soul, take my life away from his, beat me, hurt me, kill me. But for the love of You, Father, please don’t hurt him anymore.”

He goes to turn away and freezes at something solid touching the back of his legs. It snuffles and he exhales a massive breath, rolling his eyes and sneaking away from the room to his own, Bones, the culprit, following behind.

Taking his phone from his pocket, he smiles at the 4 text messages lined up on the screen. He bites his lip, and shakes his head laughing. So things aren’t perfect, they’re pretty far from it, but Dean’s ok, Cas is back, Dad’s not in danger. Dean’s getting his GED, and him and Cas are as gross as ever. He’s got Jess, texting him like a wildfire. The case against the assholes, that Sam now knows significantly more about now, is strong; they’ll be doing more time once they’re sentenced on the record.

He flops down onto his bed, Bones jumping in the least graceful way after him. Life is definitely improving.


	29. Kiss Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be a day when I don't blush at writing smut.
> 
> today was not that day
> 
> Ed Sheeran ~ Kiss Me

[Listen to me while reading](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAPY9egTX0o)

 

“Yo Sammy,” Dean calls, swiping for his brother’s head as he passes.

Sam ducks his head easily, grunting a reply. Dean looks over his shoulder, to his brother, while getting a couple of beers out of the fridge. Swivelling on one foot, he places the bottles on the counter and crosses his feet. He doesn’t say anything, eyes sweeping over his brother for reasons to explain why he’s all preoccupied and broody.

“What’s on your mind Sam?” He turns his back to him, grabbing the bottle opener from the draw.

“I’ve been looking at college applications,” Sam begins slowly and Dean rolls his eyes, he hums in answer anyway, because the nerd has like a year till he needs to worry about it, “And I saw that they have a mechanical engineering school and a zoology department there too.”

Dean breathes a soft laugh.

“Figuring we could keep the band together huh?”

The words leave his mouth absently, and the dull clink of the caps hitting the wood barely registers in his mind. Through the window, he can imagine Cas in the gardens, picture him perfectly tending to Bobby’s flowers – much to Bobby’s half-hearted grumbling – and becoming distracted by the bees and insects that pass him. Cas is, has always been, a gentle person, who was thrust into the arms of unrest and disorder. That isn’t to say his boyfriend isn’t also badass, but really, is that where Cas would be happy?

“Nah,” He says, on impulse, without thinking. The smile on his face is faraway as he turns, sipping from his beer, “Cas would want some place quieter, you know. With a garden, maybe.”

His eyes close involuntarily, and he can picture them now. In a flat, or small house, with a communal garden. And Cas would insist they have those windowsill flower boxes, _for the bees Dean_ , and he would pretend he hates it, but would water the damn things anyway. Cas would be going to university, studying whatever, and so would Dean, if they let him in with a GED and a give 'em hell attitude. They’d come back from work like mature adults, they’ll watch bad movies and make out on the couch. Cas will probably want to take Lucky, his cat, with him; Dean will just have to stock up on allergy pills. Then, Dean will cook them dinner, check in on Sammy, Cas will gush about all the neat stuff he’s learnt that day, and they’ll have lazy se-

“Oh my _god_ , ok I get the picture, Dean that’s gross. Just go back to your _boyfriend_ already.”

Dean blanches, did he say that out loud? He doesn’t move, just stares at his brother until Sam looks up from what he’s doing; he had clearly moved on from the moment.

“You’ve got your booty call face on, jerk.” Sam replies, his bitchface tightening, before he goes back to what he’s reading.

Blinking, he barks a laugh at his brother, scooping up the couple of beers with one hand, snagging the popcorn between his teeth, and with as much theatrics as he can muster, ruffles Sam’s hair.

“Bi..tch.” His insult is muffled by the packet, and he loses the other half if his dignity when he trips up the stairs and nearly smashes the beers.

 

* * *

 

Cas moved in with Dean and Sam to Bobby’s.

He was given the option, both by Mr Singer and his Mom, where to live; even to return to St Amabilis’ with Anna. However, he couldn’t bring himself to leave, not again, not when loss and fear came so close to rearing its ugly head. Here he can be with his brothers, his friends, his _family_. His mother had been understanding, uncharacteristically so, and had apologised.

He never thought he would hear the sincere words fall from her lips, not least in a way that wasn’t mocking.

(Although, he decides, her apology was for Anna, about why his sister was in fact not dead. It had been a long family meal. As it turns out, Dad had run to St Amabilis’, when he left, and had become a teacher there. Naomi had known, of course, but Anna went looking. Unbound by the grief and loss, Anna had been gone so long the police stopped looking – Naomi accepted this, as it was easier to explain to the remaining Novak children why neither their father nor sister wanted to be found. Anna found him, father, and decided to stay by his side to train to be a teacher. Father died, some years later. With watery eyes, Naomi had said that the ashes were spread through the surrounding forests.)

So, here he is. Sitting on ~~Dean’s~~  their bed, with his back pressed into the cool glass of the window behind him. That’s something he’s noticed about Dean, _his_ Dean, he always has his bed by the window. It’s probably a defence mechanism; hearing everything he had been through, in a courtroom where he could provide no comfort, had been a hellish experience in itself.

Tenderly, he rubs at the skin on his wrist. After the trial ended, and as an incentive to make Dean go to therapy, they had gotten tattoos. Not matching – he’s not going to tell Dean how he is quite possibly infatuated with the intricate lines of ink, and styles, and that he has every intention of going back to the place to get more done. It’s the simple words, in plain black ink across each of their wrists. The first words, since exile for them both, they had spoken to one another.

For him:

_Cas, I need you_

For Dean:

_I’m not leaving you_

As a reminder, he brushes his fingers over the skin reverently once more before a clashing sound from the hallway draws his attention. Dean stumbles in a few moments later, his hair ruffled, cheeks blushed red and beer bottles condensing droplets that run down his bare arms. The bag of popcorn falls from his mouth.

Cas is suddenly not so interested in drinking anymore.

The crackle of Dean’s vinyl player is like background noise to the _want_ and _need_ thrumming impossibly loud in his ears. It had been his song choice, too, Ed Sheeran, which had not received that much grievance. He can see in Dean’s face that he’s noticed the shift in his demeanour, and the lyrics and guitar strings filling builds the tension between them. Rain bangs against the windows, hard, and for a second, Cas does nothing.

He licks his lips, staring wantonly at Dean as he places the beers, finally, on the side. Crowding Dean back, he pushes him into the shut door, closing it in doing so. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, taking Dean’s hands in his own and sliding them up the glorious friction of the wood.

Kissing along Dean’s jaw, he grins against the warm skin when Dean groans, his hands flexing, protesting Cas’ hold.

“Cas...” Dean whines, Cas still refusing to meet his lips.

He stops his ministrations of his chiselled jaw line, and pecks him softly, pressing into him bodily, dropping his hands. Dean, clearly thankful for the freedom, grabs a fistful of Cas’ shirt, pushing him back whilst ravaging his mouth as though he’s been starved of the contact for too long. Cas, sucking on Dean’s tongue and tilting his head to allow Dean deeper, to let him take whatever he wants, pushes his hands up Dean’s shirt.

They haven’t done this, not properly, because Dean had to heal, the trial happened and they hadn’t found time away from their siblings to be intimate. So maybe Dean’s not the only one feeling starved of this, craving to be closer, to be nearer to the man he loves.

The backs of his legs hit the bed, and he steadies himself on Dean’s shoulder to divest them both of their shirts. Dean follows him down, shimmying his hips in a way that probably isn’t meant to be sexy, but has his erection pressing into Cas’ thigh anyway and he bucks against it. Cas’ trousers follow next, Dean’s awkward fumbling to get their socks off leaves them naked, Dean sat up with his back hunched away from Cas.

“Dean?” He sits up, ignoring the throbbing from his lower abdomen to place a hand on his boyfriend.

“Sorry Cas,” Dean glances shyly over his shoulder, lip caught between his teeth; Cas wants to replace the mark being made there with his own, “It’s just... You haven’t seen me like _this_ yet.”

Peppering butterfly kisses along Dean’s shoulders, Cas moves around behind him, wrapping his arms around Dean’s middle. He nuzzles under the spot of Dean’s ear, not gracing his statement with something to make him think that Cas believes him to be any less, whatever his physical appearance.

“I love,” Cas says, blowing a breath under Dean’s ear, taking victory in the unintentional shiver that eases the tension in Dean’s shoulders.

He rolls his own body round so that he’s sitting in Dean’s lap, their hard dicks pressed between them.

“Every single part,” he kisses him on the lips, murmuring the words into the corner of his mouth.

He makes sure to maintain eye contact, not breaking from those dilated pupils surrounded by rings of green, as he places his hand on Dean’s heart, “Of you.”

He kisses away the stray tear that tracks down Dean’s cheek and smiles, craning his neck into the hand that runs through his hair. Pushing Dean down further, Cas slides off his lap to his feet. Dean watches him curiously as he rummages through a draw, and Cas pretends not to see out of the corner of his eye Dean wiping his face with his hands.

“Now,” He strides back over, settling between Dean’s legs, “Let me take care of you.”

 

* * *

 

_Settle down with me_  
 _And I'll be your safety_  
 _You'll be my lady_  
 _I was made to keep your body warm_  
 _But I'm cold as the wind blows so hold me in your arms_

 

Cas drapes his body over Dean, hips rotating with each deep, slow thrust. Arching into it, Dean entwines their fingers, gripping to them like Cas will disappear if he doesn’t. Cas squeezes back, kissing Dean’s neck, tasting the salty sweat that’s beading on his skin. He lets go of one hand, to turn Dean’s head to get some semblance of a proper kiss, bearing down to hit Dean’s prostate and swallow the moan he gets in response.

He kisses Dean, as much as he can from his position, letting their bodies fall into a rhythm, losing himself in the motions. They’re touching everywhere; hand to hand, back to chest, thigh to thigh and it feels like _home_.

Dean wraps his legs backwards, heels pressed into the cheeks of Cas’ ass in urgency. Picking up the pace, Cas rests his forehead in the juncture of Dean’s shoulder blades, holding Dean’s hands and using them as a vice to spur him on, to make Dean come absolutely untouched beneath them.

They’d both been quiet, their lazily paced love making drawing nothing more than long groans and the slap of sweaty skin, hidden, captured, beneath the mild strums of the acoustic guitar. He can hear Dean’s breathing hitch now, as he digs deeper to slam against Dean’s prostate.

“I love you,” Cas growls, kissing Dean’s mouth in time with the chorus of the song – he may have been holding out for the perfect moment, Sam showed him films where it was said to be appropriate to do so.

“Fuck, Cas...” Dean clenches around him, coming with the silent gasp of Cas’ name on his lips.

The sensation of Dean around him, with him, grasping his fingers sends Cas over too and he bites down on the flesh of Dean’s shoulder. It makes Dean cry out, bucking upwards, and Cas groans again, his dick making a valiant attempt for round two already.

He pulls out, sighing at the loss, and rolls Dean across onto the other side of the bed and out of the wet patch on the sheets. Clearing their mess up with the nearest piece of cloth to hand, that he unapologetically throws to the other side of the room, he hugs Dean’s boneless body close. Dean mewls, his breathing heavy still from the exertion of his orgasm. Cas kisses him, nearly laughing with how eager Dean slides his tongue past his.

“Mmm tired.” Dean slurs, snuggling into Cas’ warmth.

“I can see that,” Cas quirks an amused brow, moving Dean around so that they’re spooning.

“Mmm the big spoon,” Dean mumbles, despite his body not offering even a squirm in protest.

“Not today,” Cas laughs quietly, his fingers tracing patterns over Dean’s abs.

He didn’t get the chance to re-map his boyfriend’s body, to learn the new perfect imperfections that cover him. All the trials his mortal body has suffered, and yet his soul is still as pure as anything Castiel will ever face. Dean needed this, though, the reassurance, the intimacy and privacy that bottoming from behind can provide. Sighing contentedly, Cas brushes his nose through Dean’s short hair.

“I love you,” He whispers, behind Dean’s left ear.

A few seconds of silence pass.

“I may not hear properly but I’m not completely deaf you ass,” Dean swats the hands around his waist, his movements sluggish with post orgasm bliss.

Cas chuckles and presses his nose to Dean’s neck. The rain outside clashes down, reverberating off the metal of strewn cars and the glazed windows, neither he nor Dean mind. Dean takes a deep sigh, that Cas can feel beneath the planes of his hands, and he presumes that Dean has fallen asleep. He is surprised, then, when Dean turns, brushing their lips together, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he shakes his head in a fond gesture

Dean circles Cas’ torso with his arms, pushes a leg between Cas’ own; green eyes never deviate from blue. He kisses Cas’ nose, causing it to twitch, and then grins lopsidedly.

“I love you too, you dork.”

 

_Kiss me like you wanna be loved_  
 _You wanna be loved_  
 _You wanna be loved_  
 _This feels like falling in love_  
 _Falling in love_  
 _We're falling in love_


	30. So This Is It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been.... God, I don't even know how to describe at. I never imagined this would get so many kudos, or responses and just yeah. Wow. Thank you all.
> 
> Charlotte, for the moment I hope you appreciate the happiness, the sappy, lovey dovey ending I've gifted you. And, like everyone else, I warn you of the alternate - definitely /not/ happy - ending I do intend to write. But for now, this is it.
> 
> I love you all, and it's now, 2 am, I haven't slept in over 24 hours and I plan on going over this whole thing and fixing the mistakes /later/.
> 
> I'd love you infinitesimally more if you felt like dropping me a comment; either on the whole story or if you're interested in a heartbreaking (see what I did guys) alternate ending.

Dean wanders down from their room, Cas in hand, with a stack of movies in the other hand. They're still living at Bobby's, despite the fact that Dad got out of jail a couple of weeks ago. They all needed the stability and, quite honestly, the boys had fallen into a routine with Bobby. It doesn't hurt the old man to have some life breathed back into his walls. Friday nights, when Dean wasn’t working, had always been movie night for him and Sammy; well, let’s just say that it’s evolved into something so much bigger. The whole family is coming over for New Years celebrations, and the only way to do it is the Winchester way: alcohol, good people, and movies. (Dean might have inputted the movies bit, what? Gotta keep it PG so that Sammy's friend's Moms don't hunt them down or something). 

Dean collapses onto the sofa, throwing his legs over Sam, who’s reading something on his laptop, and dragging Cas down with him. He shifts, so that Sam can rest the laptop on his legs; Sam only grumbles once, despite his unfortunate position when Cas stretches out too. He looks down to catch Cas looking up, head resting on his shoulder as he lazily drags his fingers through his hair. Cas is like a kitten, head rolling with Dean’s movements, his eyes still insanely blue, but relaxed, docile.

Things have settled down, somewhat, and they’re all very much aware of the changes that are coming. The new year is fast approaching, as in they have a few hours of this crazy year left, and his extended family are coming over to celebrate. Some things are good, Dean acquiesces, and to think that this time last year he was preparing to die, with very few friends and no _Cas_ in his life is in itself, unbelievable.

“So,” Dean says, letting his head fall back against the back of the sofa and eyelids slip shut, “When’s the company arriving?”

“Sam will be over later after completing his studies,” Cas replies, fingers playing loosely with the open collar of Dean’s shirt. A small part of him is still excited, when the inked skin of his boyfriend’s wrist passes over any part of his body, the words, forever ordained in black on each of them, is more commitment than any ring. It’s like a scar, but without the negative connotations – it proves what they’ve been through, what they’ve become.

“Jess is coming at 6, she has singing or whatever first,” Sam says, distractedly. “What about Charlie?”

Dean smirks at his brother’s answer, knowing full well he’s blushing like a maid and has Jess’ life schedule imprinted on his brain. Nerd.

“She’s bringing the Wii and controls up here in a bit,” He yawns, nudging his elbow up to stop Cas from falling asleep, “What about Gabe?”

“Food run,” Cas says, squirming back so that his head is cushioned on his chest, “He also mentioned pie?”

“Awesome,” Dean groans happily, licking his lips at the promise of pie. Gabriel is a lot of things, most of them bad, but his sweet tooth is to be commended.

“Try not to get a boner, Dean, Bobby will be back from the shop soon.” Sam grouses, thumping his shin. He kicks his leg up, managing to dislodge Cas again and nearly tip the laptop off Sam’s lap in retaliation.

“Deeeean,” They both shout, in an annoyingly whiney pouty voice.

“Ok, ok alright,” He drops his hands back to Cas, pulling him further into his arms. Cas manoeuvres in his lap so that he’s straddling him, face mushed into the side of his neck. Last night was... Long, tiring.

“Is Anna coming, I remember her mentioning something about work?” The soft pants of Cas’ breath are super distracting, and he has to stop himself because, yeah, Sammy’s right and pretty soon this whole room is going to be filled with family.

“No,” Cas mumbles into his skin, tongue darting out and momentarily causing Dean to freeze, “Sh-Michael.”

He rubs his hands up Cas’ back, “Michael still being a hardass, huh?”

Grunting, Cas practically melts against him in answer. So Michael had been accepting, sort of, given everything that eventually transpired. Mike and Naomi are over the whole ‘being gay is unnatural and you’re going to hell’ thing, but PDA is one of the things he and Cas avoid in their presence. Still, it’s nice to be condemned when he walks through the door, fingers entwined in Cas’.

“Balthazar gone back to Europe?” Dean asks, craning his neck awkwardly after a few seconds without Cas answering. He rolls his eyes, Cas is snuggled close and the fucker has fallen asleep. Secretly, though, he loves Cas like this. Pliant, cuddly, and he’s grateful that Sam isn’t bothered too much by it, even if he has moved further down the sofa. “What about Kev, Sammy?”

“Kevin’s getting dropped with Jody by her Mom later,” Sam says, closing the lid to his laptop with a small click, “Dad’s getting booze for the ‘adults’ after his shift,” he rolls his eyes, “I think Garth is coming too.”

“Uuuuugh,” Dean buries his face into the mess of Cas’ hair, “How the hell can Bobby know that guy anyway?!”

Cas mewls in his sleep, a small huff at the raise of Dean’s voice slipping past his parted lips. Dean becomes distracted by how satisfied he looks, the solid line of his body a furnace surrounding him. Sam clears his throat, and Dean turns his head so fast his vision spins. Holy shit has he got it bad for this boy.

“I don’t know Dean, he seems ok to me.” Sam shrugs, placing his laptop on the floor. “Jo and Ellen will be over at some point too, but I think they have to go back to The Roadhouse later.”

Closing his eyes, Dean feels a smile forming on his lips. Here he is, 19, in a stable relationship, with a family that has grown, rapidly, from 3 to so many. He’s got good friends, a safe family, and God help him if anything else happens now. The man who killed his Mom and tried to take his Dad is finally behind bars, and she can be properly at rest. Sammy’s at the end of the sofa, fidgeting under his feet, content to just _be_. His heart isn’t failing, Cas isn’t leaving.

“Hey Dean...” Sam starts, speaking quietly so as to not wake up Cas.

He glances at his brother, who’s staring out at the ancient TV set across from them. Just over the tufts of Cas’ brown hair, he can see the start of a premature bitchface forming.

If this was a movie of his life – it has seriously felt like it should be at times – this would be the moment, before another relaxing night surrounded by the people he cares about, when his story is wrapped in a badly tied, wonky bow, that the screen would go blank; the music would go from dramatic to nothing, and the main characters would be on the precipice of hinting at a sequel, an adventure.

*So imagine -  humour Dean - that this really is a movie, and Dean’s watching his brother, Cas is asleep on his chest, and the screen blacks out*

“Can we just be, ya know, _normal_ next year?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: this is like 700 words from 80k so don't be surprised if there is some additional detail at-some-point if you happen to re read this. Those 700 words are frustrating the hell out of me.


End file.
